Red
by Heartbreak Drake
Summary: Harry Potter just wants his sister to survive the school year, but there are so many grumpy groos and big ol' meanies standing in his way. AU. Twins. GoF.
1. Prologue: Erised

**Disclaimer: No dollas.**

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**Red**

**Prologue: Erised**

Harry was bound in black rope, but all he saw was red.

Professor Quirrell's blistering hands were clasped about his sister's throat. Daisy's skin, mottled in the light of guttering torches, was flushed, and covered in perspiration. Her fingers drove at the man's face with bestial desperation as she combated the rushing dark of nothingness. For a time, it worked. The professor burned where Daisy touched him; his cruel lips twisted. His cheeks melted. The flesh slid red and bubbling, along his jaw. But Quirrell would not stop squeezing her throat. Daisy's cries grew faint, and were finally strangulated. She went limp.

Professor Quirrell's second face, with grey skin like the bark of a burning tree, and eyes that were ember red, grinned at him.

Harry screamed, and writhed in his bonds. The ropes cut into his wrists. He felt the braided pattern against his skin when they sliced into his ankles. The fury rose; he could feel it in his teeth, in the red taste that filled his mouth, but the futility of his struggle rang in the stone chamber and resounded in his ears. Harry's throat was raw when Quirrell drew back from the unconscious girl. It had gone so wrong.

Snape was their friend. How could _Snape_ be their friend? And Quirrell, he was the Dark Lord Voldemort's servant. Poor, passive, pathetic Professor Quirrell was a killer. Quirrell had murdered the unicorn. He had killed the troll. He had tried to kill Daisy during her Quidditch match. And now Harry, through his stupidity, his recklessness, his hubris, had provided Quirrell the Girl Who Lived, packaged neatly, if slightly battered, for slaughter. The reality of it wrung his heart tighter than the ropes could. His sister was going to die. Harry was going to die.

"You see, Harry Potter?" The flesh of Quirrell's scalp rippled as Voldemort called, in his disgusting warble, "A little girl, nothing more… and I was vanquished by _her_? Watch…, boy! No man has the constitution to travel the distance that I have, and no man will ever be as great. I will master eternity."

Harry could not form words. His rage tore through his throat as unintelligible, raw howls. He had given Voldemort his sister. He had given Voldemort the Philosopher's Stone.

Quirrell turned his mangled face, then. The tissue had run off bloodily along his skull; it dripped and twisted like the wax of a candle that had been left to burn unchecked. His hands were worse —glimmers of white bone peeked out at Harry through the gore. The odor of burned flesh pressed into him so hard and so foul that he could taste it. It was like dirty, fatty meat. Musky. Metallic. And lingering. Bile choked him. Harry spattered his bonds and the stone floor with vomit.

"The pain…, Master, the pain," Quirrell lisped in agony. The man's eyes rolled in his skull. His tongue had fused with what was left inside his mouth. "Help me."

"Help you?" said Voldemort from behind him. "Gather the stone, and kill the girl!"

Through his heaving coughs, Harry's heart twisted tighter. If the elixir could restore Lord Voldemort, the Stone could fix Quirrell, even damaged as he was. A black wand was suddenly pointed at Daisy's unmoving form. Quirrell rose up to summon all of his remaining strength.

"_Avada—_"

No. Please. Not his sister. Harry yelled again.

And Quirrell was thrown bodily from the unconscious girl. He crashed to the floor before the Mirror of Erised with a broken howl. Harry's cries died out. His heart unclenched, and he went suddenly, unexplainably still. In the mirror's reflection, Harry saw the impression of something tall. Tall, and blue, with glimmering spectacles and a jauntily placed wizard's hat.

New breath pushed into his nostrils and chilled his throat on the way down. Cold, but fresh and sweet. Even staring at the disgusting mess that was Quirrell, Harry pulled the air in again, and again. Each gasp came like a rolling tide up to a roasting shore and left his chest cool and pleasant. Sweat dripped down from his forehead and across his lips. He licked the beads away. The calm, Harry thought, was decidedly unreasonable, but he could do nothing but breathe, and watch the sea-colored robes of Hogwarts' Headmaster come into focus.

"Ah," said Albus Dumbledore. "Good evening, Quirinus. Tom." The old man stood just past the threshold of black flame, wand aloft, unconcerned that three people had made it through to the final chamber. He didn't look at Harry or Daisy at all.

"Dumbledore," hissed Lord Voldemort. Quirrell couldn't do more than quiver. His extra face admonished his inaction. "Up, swine, up!"

But Professor Dumbledore had thrown Professor Quirrell clear across the room, shattering whatever resolve he had gathered to kill Daisy Potter. Swooping robes dappled with orange light, the Headmaster crossed to the Mirror of Erised and the unmoving man. For the first time, Harry noticed just how tall Dumbledore was. He loomed over the children and Voldemort alike, with shoulders and wand relaxed, and a head like a hoary lion.

Dumbledore's boots scraped measured paces on the stone as he regarded the Dark Lord. Harry saw that the happy twinkle that usually coated the professor's every look was gone, swallowed by a dangerous arctic blue. Harry felt the power of it in his very skin. Any chillier, and the Headmaster might have cracked his half-moon spectacles. Harry failed to suppress his shiver. The old man was a gun with the hammer drawn back. And although Harry should have been afraid, or at least cautious, one thought resounded inside him: They were saved.

His heart leapt and cracked through the calm with deafening beats. Hagrid's voice came to Harry, as it had in the Leaky Cauldron the previous July, low and rumbling, "_Professor Dumbledore_? _Why, he's the on'y one You-Know-Who ever feared…_"

Harry tried to sit up, but the bonds held him rigid at the waist. He gritted his teeth; the anger at being trussed like a hog was filling him again. Harry opened his mouth to call out, but Dumbledore spoke, and protest died in his throat.

"Excuse the lateness of my arrival, Tom," said the Headmaster. "Travel by broom, while magnificently stress-relieving, is for times less troubled, I fear." Dumbledore's lion's eyes glanced at the gilded mirror and went flat for an instant. They swept to Professor Quirrell with redoubled frost.

"Your foolishness, Dumbledore, is unmatched," said Voldemort.

"Perhaps," said Professor Dumbledore, and cocked his head. "But it seems that you are following remarkably close behind me."

Voldemort's face twisted in a silent, shaking snarl. Harry nearly laughed, but the atmosphere of the chamber left him without a voice.

"Here is the elixir of immortality!" said Voldemort with unrestrained violence. "This is the well of unimaginable wealth. It is a means for the greatest of changes, and you seal it away in the bowels of your castle!"

As Voldemort raved, Dumbledore raised his wand. It looked to Harry that the old man was just preparing to undertake a tedious chore. He half expected Dumbledore to roll his voluminous sleeves up, but the professor just shook his head at the Dark Lord.

"It was not sealed away," he said. Dumbledore looked at Daisy, throttled on the cold stone, and Harry, bound and dirty. "The Stone was stored for those pure of intent and heart. Purity that you, and poor Quirinus, forsook."

"Purity of heart?" Voldemort's shade managed a strained sneer. "False hopes for children, Dumbledore."

"By design, Tom," said Professor Dumbledore. "Surely a child would not aid someone as cruel as yourself?"

"I do not beg aid," spat Voldemort. "I offer power. I offered you power once, and so I do again."

"Again, I must refuse it. But, for the generosity," Dumbledore said with a smile that did not reach up to wrinkle his eyes. "You may have a peaceful retreat. Release Quirinus or I will exorcise your mean spirit from him."

"He will die," said Voldemort.

"Do you know me to take lives without care, Tom?"

Harry wriggled along the floor. He saw the red-brown of his wand on the dirty flags. He didn't know what he could offer in support of the Headmaster, but Harry would give him anything to revenge the assault on Daisy. He tried to roll himself over and inch, worm-like, to the instrument, but froze mid-motion.

Lord Voldemort had started to laugh at Professor Dumbledore. The extra face on Quirrell's head laughed with such verve that had it a gut or arms, they would be wrapped about one another and be trembling in delight.

"I did not know you, then, Dumbledore. But, how I wish that I did."

When had Dumbledore taken lives? Unbidden, the image of the man's Chocolate Frog Card sprung into Harry's mind, _Albus Dumbledore_… _famous for the defeat of Dark Wizard Grindelwald. _Harry no longer had trouble seeing that the old mad was not mad, but murder… Harry looked at Dumbledore keenly.

The horror of Quirrell's form didn't affect him. Dumbledore didn't turn his long nose up at the awful scent that still drifted through the chamber. He didn't gag, as Harry had. The Headmaster just shook his head again, and all expression fell from his face. He gave his wand a gentle wave. Quirrell's body flipped face up, smothering the Dark Lord.

"I cannot allow you a body, living or dead," said Professor Dumbledore. "He has welcomed your spirit." And then Dumbledore turned to look at Harry. His voice was firm when he said, "You will want to turn away, now, Harry."

Harry could not, though. Professor Dumbledore turned to Professor Quirrell and pointed his wand down. Lord Voldemort howled something, but only the terrible anger of the sound made it past the muffling stone.

A liquid whisper slid from the Headmaster's lips, too quiet to make the words out. After a moment, the call multiplied and was a phantom choir singing feverishly in the chamber. Harry's heart ceased to beat. The sound echoed and hung like wisps in the air. The volume of them grew with each movement of Professor Dumbledore's lips. His skin crawled. Quirrell stirred, and then the man's deformed body contorted.

Screams of pain that Harry had never heard, or could even begin to comprehend, ripped through what was left of Quirrell's maw as the Headmaster pulled Voldemort from him. Bones snapped audibly, and Quirrell begged for an end, but Dumbledore didn't waver in his chanting. Blood bubbled up in his throat and drowned the pleas. It dribbled through the hole in Quirrell's cheek like a black river, and splashed in time with the contractions.

Harry retched. Voldemort's spirit screamed. And Quirrell died.

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"Harry," said Professor Dumbledore again.

Harry didn't know for how long he had been staring at the pile of ash that used to be Professor Quirrell. The Headmaster had removed his bonds, removed the Philosopher's stone from Daisy's pocket, and removed the black fire from the door, but Harry still could not stand.

"Harry."

"Yes, sir?" Harry's voice was hoarse from screaming, and, when he swallowed spit, his throat crackled with dry pain. The stone was scorched where Quirrell's body was burned. Dumbledore said it was to prevent the Dark Lord from returning to it and rising again. Like a zombie. He jerked his eyes up to the Headmaster.

"You shouldn't have been witness to that," whispered Professor Dumbledore. With a quick brush of his wand, the man cleaned the floor of vomit, ash, and soot. "But the action had to be swift, and concise. Lord Voldemort is wise to many protective magics, many exorcisms, too long, and he may have found a permanent place inside Professor Quirrell."

"Tom," said Harry sitting up. "You called him Tom."

"The name is only a remnant of a boy I knew." Dumbledore stood, helping Harry to his feet. "He was a student here, long ago. Always troubled, always exceedingly bright —nearly fifty years, and still no one can top his marks. But… his compassion was lacking."

"Lacking, sir?"

"Nonexistent, Harry," admitted Professor Dumbledore. "Though, you seem to be exceptional in your own way. Many do not have the bravery to come this far, or the strength to be standing on solid feet, as you are, after seeing such things as Lord Voldemort and…" Dumbledore looked toward the spot where Quirrell had died, malformed and terrible.

"Yes, sir," said Harry. He didn't know how else to respond. A part of him felt as though he deserved the horrific memories, and the night terrors that would come. Before they had gone through the trapdoor, Harry had been seized by a thirst, for glory, and the solution to the great mystery. Bravery or strength had not been in him then. It was Daisy, his sister of a few months, eager to catch Snape, eager to adventure, and resolved to stop the man from aiding their parents' murderer that had been brave.

Harry had led her right to Lord Voldemort.

He solved the puzzle piece by piece, but did not see Professor Quirrell to be a threat. It had always been Snape. Snape was mean, and Snape was spiteful. But Quirrell had been in Diagon Alley that day. And Daisy and Harry squabbled over what owl to buy, and who got the bigger cage, and were too caught up in having a sibling to fight with, to really notice Hagrid gathering the tiny package from the bank. If only Harry had put it together properly. If hadn't been caught up in dragons, and Nicolas Flamel, and learning magic, he might have… he could have stopped…

"You're lost again, Harry," came Dumbledore's gentle voice. "You bear no responsibility for this. This is my fault."

"We broke the rules, though," said Harry. "If I had listened to Hermione, if we had come to you directly, you could have stopped him."

The old man looked at the Mirror of Erised and then at Harry.

"What do you see inside it, Harry?"

"Erm, you know, Professor," said Harry furrowing his brow. "It's Daisy, and Mum, and Dad, and me. And a dog."

"And a dog, too?" asked Dumbledore with the first hints of a genuine smile curling his lips. "You are a greedy one." Harry blushed. Dumbledore's beard jumped as he gave a little chuckle.

"We're not allowed pets at the orphanage, sir."

"And you listen to rules, there, Harry?"

"No," said Harry honestly. He had tried to sneak cats and dogs in before, but someone was always allergic, or scared, or couldn't keep a secret. In the end, Harry had to let them go. He wasn't the only person in the world.

"And this is precisely the difference between you and Daisy, and Lord Voldemort," said Professor Dumbledore. They came to stand before the great mirror. Dumbledore stared at it for very long before speaking again, and Harry could see that interrupting him would not be wise.

"Tom was raised in an orphanage not far from where you live, Harry," said Professor Dumbledore. "And early on, he discovered that he was different from the other children there. He had strange abilities... He could talk to snakes, and control animals; he could move objects with his mind. And as he learned these things, the young boy suffered torment at the hands of his peers. For he was always quiet, always cruel and caustic to anyone that approached him with questions of his strange activities. You see, Harry, Tom believed that he was special. He saw that the others were beneath him, and so he sought cruel vengeance with his magic.

Tom Riddle took his first life at age seven.

It was the pet of an orphan girl, a mouse, which she had spirited quietly from the yard and into her bunk. It lived off of the meanest scraps of food and the tiny, hopeless girl's affection. It brought to her, a child that no one would adopt, the spark of joy. She loved it. But Tom… did not like how she ridiculed him in the schoolyard."

Dumbledore didn't have to finish. Harry's chest felt very tight then. He was familiar with ridicule, and with being different, but he had never done what Voldemort had. He looked to Dumbledore, but the old man's eyes were far away, and full of sorrow.

"Harry," he said, at last. "Your sister has a heavy burden to bear. How it is borne, though, depends on you."

Harry opened his mouth, but seeing the cloudy gaze of the professor, let his teeth click together. He chewed his grubby lips in silence as the gravity of the Headmaster's words settled on him. It made sense, though. Why did the Dark Lord wait until now to pop up again?

Daisy.

Why choose a wizard to possess from Hogwarts? Daisy. The violent anger started to boil in him again, and it took everything he had to quash it. It wasn't her fault. Daisy had been getting into trouble from the very moment Harry set eyes on her. Professor Dumbledore had given truth to his fear.

"Voldemort isn't going to stop, is he?" Harry managed.

"He will not."

The family that smiled at Harry from inside the Mirror of Erised did not make him cheerful, then. His father waved, black-haired and bespectacled —just like him, but it was, at once, empty and unappealing. James Potter's eyes did not have the same look as Harry's. That face couldn't express fear or pain or hope. There was only the monotonous, unconscious, infuriating joy. Harry's mouth trembled as a frown touched it. And he understood. What hollow promises stared back at Professor Dumbledore?

"Come, Harry," he said. "Help me transport your sister to the infirmary. Perhaps your presence will save me from Madam Pomfrey's wrath." Dumbledore intended it to be a joke, but Harry couldn't bring himself to smile. He crossed to where Daisy was curled up on the floor. The girl breathed in and out, tranquil and unconscious. Harry crouched at his twin's side and brushed the hair from her face and neck, inspecting where Quirrell had attacked. Her skin was rosy, but looked healthy enough.

Harry trailed his fingers across her lightning-bolt scar. He gritted his teeth at the lance of pain that dug into his chest. Safe, or not, he couldn't force the echo of her frantic screams from his head. How could he protect her from Lord Voldemort? He couldn't even stop Quirrell from tying him up. If Dumbledore, with his tidal surge of power, had not come, Harry would have gone mad seeing his sister killed.

"Prop her head, please, Harry," said Professor Dumbledore. His fingers were lead as he pulled them away from Daisy and complied. The Headmaster levitated her body with a wordless flick of his wand. He motioned for Harry to follow, and they exited the chamber.

As they traversed back up to the trapdoor, Harry's eyes did not stray long from the sleeping form of his twin. Daisy looked just like him. She had dark hair, and was a pale, slight thing. She was his only family. She was reality, and could not wink and grin at him from behind glass. Harry had only known her for a year, but already he shared more with her with anyone else. And Voldemort would not stop coming for her. Harry felt Dumbledore's eyes on him as they neared the giant chess set.

"Professor?" said Harry.

The old man, as if caught doing something illicit, flushed behind his white beard. Harry crinkled his brow. He couldn't bring himself to laugh at the strange reaction; something prickled at him. There was, in the Headmaster's gaze, an expression that would have been easy to understand on anyone else's face, but was veiled by the old fellow's queer persona. Harry did not know what made him ask, but he did.

"Do you have a sister, Professor?" And Harry saw the twinkle fade from Dumbledore's eye for the second time that night. But the cold power wasn't there; it was the dull glaze that Dumbledore had given the Mirror of Erised. Daisy wavered a little in the air.

"Yes."

"Oh," said a timorous Harry. "Is she nice?"

"She was." It was the tone that jarred Harry more than the words. Dumbledore's voice had the false trill of pleasantness that had used prior to exorcising Lord Voldemort from Professor Quirrell. Harry stumbled, and tried to hide it in a little hop, as they crossed the checked marble of chessboard, but it didn't escape Dumbledore's eyes. He stopped walking. Without the reassuring sparkle behind his glasses, the Headmaster made Harry feel very hesitant.

"What happened?" whispered Harry.

And Albus Dumbledore told him.

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**Thanks.**


	2. The Artful Dodger

**AN: Twins. AU. 4th Year. **

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**One**

**The Artful Dodger**

The walk from Southwark Orphanage to King's Cross Station was long, but without incident.

A broad smile was smeared across Harry Potter's face. It wouldn't leave him, although the sky was darkening, and tiny raindrops started to wet his skin. It was funny, really. He had trudged, with an old red trunk, a magic wand, and an empty birdcage, through London and over Blackfriars Bridge and no one had spared him a second look. Many hadn't gifted him with a first look.

Better than that, though, was the dwindling of stress from between his shoulders and neck. The summer was gone. Harry readjusted his grip on the hand strap as the station pulled into view. His homework was completed. His pockets were stuffed with gold and silver, and he was going to see his sister for the first time in two months.

Harry had not had a sister for very long, only four years now. He had been left at the orphanage when he was a year old—both of his parents had been murdered in a mugging. Or that was what the matron had told him. How could she have known that Harry's family had been targeted by an evil sorcerer and that his twin sister, only a babe herself, had defeated him? Harry had said this out loud to himself, of course. Even after four years, it sounded like he was meant for the asylum rather than the orphanage.

It was all true, however, and except for a lightning bolt scar on her forehead, Daisy Potter remained whole and unharmed. She was now a famous witch: the Girl Who Lived. And despite being a wizard and being enrolled in magic school, too, Harry took the greatest pleasure in having a real blood relative.

All of a sudden, the droplets that had tickled the hair on his arms in long intervals lost all patience. There was powerful breeze that tossed his hair and rattled his birdcage, and then the rain started to come down. Harry quickened his pace, pulling his things past the dripping awnings and newsstands.

His mood was unchanged. If anything, the smile had widened, and the station's old crystal barrel vaults grinned back at him from across the way. Harry hurried along, avoiding taxi cabs, and automobiles, and rapidly filling puddles. He grabbed a trolley for his luggage as he entered the station, and shot off immediately for Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

Although the name of the platform would have normal folk itching their scalps, Harry had all but become accustomed to the quirks of magical nomenclature. He would not have been surprised if Waterloo Station had something like Platform Thirteen-and-One-Half that led to a secret finishing school in Hampshire. But names for platforms and secret schools aside, it was the way that one got onto the train to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that was truly fantastic.

In order to reach the boarding platform, one had to run directly into the brick pier that divided platforms nine and ten, baggage and all.

All right. It was still crazy. But Harry loved it.

"Get off me, Dudley," came a distressed voice as he drew near his destination. "I don't have anything!"

Harry's good humor evaporated like a sprinkling of water on a stovetop. Just outside the entrance to the platforms, a boy, who might have already consumed several other boys from the look of him, grasped Harry's sister by her wrist. Daisy Potter was red in the face as she struggled to break through the thick-fingered grip. The girl was dressed in an oversized sweater and rather too tight jeans, and had dug her heels in, arguing fiercely in between pained gasps. Anger exploded in him at the sound.

Harry gave his trolley a great heave. The weight of the trunk laden with spell books, a pewter cauldron, a broomstick and assorted magical paperweights careened into the fat boy's unsuspecting back. Dudley loosed Daisy's hand and, with a pained squeal, fell to the ground. Harry's birdcage thwacked him across the head for good measure.

"Harry!" Daisy smoothed her baggy grey sweater like it was a dress and made to approach him, but Harry ignored her. The blonde boy lay moaning on the platform, and his foul parents weren't around to save him, this time.

Harry was inches from grabbing his wand to hex Dudley into pieces but stayed his hand just long enough to see a few men in business suits stroll past. One muttered something about hooligans. A smile forced its way through the heat of his rage and twisted Harry's mouth. Leaving the wand, he jammed his hand into the pocket of his trousers and crouched over Dudley's quaking form.

The blade of Harry's knife sprung up with a _slick_.

"Hello, Dursley," whispered Harry. "Got rid of that tail, did you?" Dudley Dursley's eyes were watery blue dinner plates. The boy scuttled backwards; his massive bottom dragged after him. He crashed into Harry's trunk.

"P-potter!" Dudley stammered, finding that he could not flee with sufficient speed or precision. Harry brought his face close to Dudley's.

"It looks as though the doc forgot some ham, Dud," said Harry, inspecting the boy like he had seen the butcher do a promising slab of meat. "Are you going to apologize to Daisy, or is your dad going to be billed for an emergency operation?"

"No!" His voice was a few notes past hoarse. Moisture collected on his forehead. "You don't understand! I didn't… I… She, she took my ticket money." Dudley looked as if he might faint away.

"No," confirmed Harry. His voice grew hot. The knife jerked at Dudley's face. "You never seem to understand. That's my sister. You were hurting her. I don't care what it is that she did. You're going to apologize, or we're going to see if I have what it takes to get into Bart's." Harry punctuated his words by edging the knife ever closer the boy's throat. Dudley looked down at the sharp-looking blade and swallowed. He turned his frightened gaze on Daisy; his lips trembled.

"Sorry," yelped Dudley. Harry smiled. He pressed the blade against Dudley's cheek. The boy let out a croak of horror.

"I hear anything even resembling another complaint," Harry began, "and I'll make sure someone pays a visit to that posh school of yours." He pulled the knife back and slid the blade away. Dudley let out a shuddering breath.

"Now, get out of here," said Harry. "You lummox."

"I can't!" cried Dudley, regaining volume. "She took—I mean, I lost my fare." Harry stuffed his hand into his pocket, scowling at the look of fright on Dudley's face, and came out with a crumpled banknote. He pressed it into the boy's hand. Nearly crying, Dudley wasted not a breath in retreat. He moved as fast as his huge weight would allow. The boy's fingers clenched his backside to protect him from any incoming curses. Harry's anger cooled. His scowl was replaced by a grin when he realized just how funny Dudley Dursley looked waddling rapidly for the Underground.

"You didn't have to scare him like that, you know," said Daisy, but her voice was bright with laughter. Harry faced his sister as he stacked his trolley back up.

To just look at Harry and Daisy was to acknowledge that they were twins. Their hair was the same color, black, and despite differing lengths, similarly untidy. Their eyes were Lily Potter's, green and striking. Daisy's face was softer than Harry's, though. Everything about her was softer than Harry. He was a ball of razor wire, and she a spool of yarn. She was smaller than him. The top of her head barely brushed his nose, and even through the baggy outline of her jumper, Harry could see his sister's thinness.

Harry blamed the Dursleys. He had never been spoiled at the orphanage, but the times that he had gone without food and play were few and far between. And they were always due to the repercussions of his own mercurial temper. Daisy had fared worse than him.

The (and Harry loathed to call them) people that his sister lived with detested her. They thought magic was unnatural and freakish. Her relatives had made Daisy live in a cupboard beneath the stairs until she had received her Hogwarts letter. Harry's jaw tensed and fresh anger welled up in him as he thought of it. It was astonishing that Daisy always had the spirit to gift him with that wild smile whenever they were reunited, no matter the circumstance.

"Yes, well, I'm sure he's past due a wicked fright," said Harry, reining his temper. He frowned at his twin. "You're thin."

Daisy rolled her eyes.

"Not you, too," she said. Daisy grabbed her own trolley from the edge of platform ten. It had a similar dingy trunk and dented birdcage, except that her cage contained a beautiful snowy owl. It was their pet, Hedwig. Daisy bent to see if the bird had been unsettled by the excitement. "I'm just fine, Harry. Mrs. Weasley had me for two weeks, and tried to kill me with enormous meals the whole time."

And then, as if remembering something very important, Daisy jerked loose her trolley. Hedwig screeched and became truly unsettled. Daisy tackled her brother with a hug.

"I missed you, too," said Harry, winded. He set his glasses properly on his nose and reached up to tousle Daisy's long hair. His sister's curiously shaped scar stared back at him. Harry held her at arm's length, and shoved the bite of discomfort away. "But I think you ought to have a knife, not me."

"Oh please, Oliver Twist," Daisy teased. "I live in Surrey, not on the mean streets of London. And Dudley is our cousin. He wouldn't do anything too bad. I could have pulled him through the wall. He would have had a coronary."

"Doesn't matter," Harry pressed. "If I can't see you during holiday, I'd rather you have some means of protection."

"I wouldn't even know what to do with it!"

"You stick them with sharp end, idiot," Harry said. Daisy snickered.

"Still, I can't believe they let Dudley bring you here on his own," continued Harry, piloting his luggage cart. "The boy has so much fat that it's seeped into his brain. Honestly… losing his fare." Harry paused as a bashful expression crossed Daisy's face.

"You did take his money!"

"He deserved it," said Daisy defensively. "I was fine on my own, but Dudley just _had_ to go into the city, too. He didn't help at all with my trunk, and would not stop poking at Hedwig. So as soon as we got off, I nicked his money clip."

Harry just sighed. Daisy flashed a toothy smile and dragged him to the entrance of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

"You worry so much, Harry. You know that I can always do magic if I'm in a real mess," said Daisy. "Now come, I've loads to tell you." She pushed her trolley into the wall and hurried after it as it melted away. Harry's groan was halfhearted. He waited a beat, making sure that all was clear, and then followed after his sister.

The Hogwarts Express, a brilliant red locomotive, puffed happy white smoke clouds up ahead of them. The big metal thing was extremely unaware of the black sky, and strengthening rainfall. And so was Daisy. Staring up at the train in silent awe, raindrops pattered onto her head, and dripped onto her luggage. A few families walked by with umbrellas open above them, bidding farewells and transporting trunks. For the most part, though, the platform was empty. They were early yet. The mad run on train cars and booths had not begun. Harry pushed his stuff along, and motioned for his sister to follow. He didn't want to be around when everyone was rushing about in the rain.

"If it wasn't for Hogwarts, I don't think I could stay with the Dursleys for another day," said Daisy quietly as they made for the middle of the train. Her gaze flitted from the glistening steam engine to a large fireplace that had spit out a family of four in a spurt of flame. "I wish we could just say that Voldemort is gone for good, and then Headmaster would have to let me come and stay with you."

Harry's blood turned to sludge at the mention of the Dark Lord. His trunk lurched forward as he came to a stop. He gave his sister and the hint of her old scar a look.

"Well, he's not gone, Daisy," said Harry. "And you know it. More than anyone."

"Always the bloody scar! It doesn't mean anything, Harry, it's just being strange," snapped Daisy, rounding on her brother. Harry didn't believe her and it showed on his face. Daisy balled her hands in to fists and snarled up at him. "Why is it so wrong for me to want to live with you instead of piggy and his parents?"

"Oh, and what is it that happened to you at the World Cup?" Harry asked. "Isn't that why you had to go right back to Surrey?" His voice was quiet and dangerous. Daisy flinched. Harry wasn't sure if it was his tone, or that he knew what had happened to his sister at the Quidditch World Cup. A fleeting image of hurt ran across Daisy's face. He deflated then, his rage fading. Harry flicked at her chin affectionately.

"I wish the Dark Lord leaping out from behind a dustbin is all that we have to worry about."

"The two of us are more than capable of protecting ourselves," Daisy said, not smiling at her brother's joke. "And it's twice now that I've beaten Voldemort, weakened or not."

Harry was silent. Daisy stared back at him, obstinate. He opened his mouth to say something further, but the matter was put to rest as Daisy let out a startling shriek of delight. She was answered in kind by what looked to Harry like a bushy-haired missile wearing a yellow raincoat. He was jostled and shoved aside as a girl with buckteeth and kind brown eyes grabbed his sister.

"Hermione!" said Daisy with a wide smile. Harry straightened his spectacles, and watched the girls babble greetings as if they had been separated for an age. Hermione Granger was a nice girl, and if nothing else, rather clever. Daisy had befriended her in their first year at Hogwarts, and the girl had been first in their class ever since. Harry was perpetually two places behind her.

"Sorry, Harry," Hermione said at length, apologizing for shoving him. Her cheeks were suffused with pink. Harry waved her off. The bushy haired girl ignored the gesture, and enveloped him in a great hug. "How was your summer? I was so upset that you couldn't make the World Cup."

Harry blinked. He could feel the heat of her face through his soggy t-shirt.

"Erm, you were?" said Harry. Excluding the trouble that Daisy roped them into every year, Harry did not spend a lot of time bonding with Hermione. The girl nodded. Harry pried himself from her embrace. He patted her arm. "Er, don't worry about it. I did get to go to Highbury to watch some football. And I read all about the Final in the paper. But you had fun, then?"

"It was a great experience, nothing like the muggle World Cup, of course. Utterly fantastic, except for..." Hermione bit her lip. Harry saw something like fear quake in her eyes. He had heard all about the muggle baiting, of course, and the Dark Mark. And Harry had met Hermione's parents before, in Diagon Alley exchanging royal currency for goblin gold. They were well-to-do dentists who had been pleasantly surprised that their only daughter had turned out to be a witch. Daisy placed a hand on the girl's arm.

"Just don't think about it," she told Hermione. "Come on, let's get seats. I can see Ron and the rest from here. You've got all year to swoon in front of my brother."

"I did not swoon!" cried Hermione.

* * *

The windows of the train car rattled as the Hogwarts Express coursed over the steel tracks. Harry sat near Hermione, and Daisy was opposite them, playing with Ron's new owl, Pig. The runt of a bird was shrill and excitable. It flitted around the small compartment like a feathery golf ball off a sugar rush.

"He's a funny little blighter," said Daisy. Pig bounced off of her palm and rocketed into the glass pane of the compartment door. The owl's hoot could have been mistaken for the sound of a toy whistle as it shook off the impact.

"I don't want a funny owl," Ron Weasley grumbled good-naturedly. "But don't change the topic. What could Charlie have meant about seeing us soon?"

"I told you," said Harry. "Dragon Quidditch."

In the two hours since the train had left London, the rain had not ceased. If anything, they were travelling with the storm. So with the atmosphere just right, the three friends had caught Harry up on the happenings at the Quidditch World Cup and the aftermath. Where Daisy and Hermione left holes in the story, Ron and Harry traded silent looks. The boy had written to Harry immediately following the incident with the Dark Mark. Ron hadn't been with Daisy for the duration of the excitement, though, and Harry had the distinct feeling that his sister was still holding something back from him.

But Harry accepted the girls' edited story without an inquisition; perhaps it was out of guilt for not telling them about his summer. When Hermione had asked, and was then echoed by Daisy and Ron, Harry just glazed over it. He told them that the matron had offered him work at the orphanage. So he had tended the front desk during the day, and studied his course books at night. It was not entirely false. However, he could not avoid Daisy's searching look when he glanced over at her. His sister knew that Harry hated the dull work at the orphanage. He just gave her the same innocent look that she had provided him during her tale.

When neither Daisy nor Harry, engaged in their staring contest, offered anything else, Hermione broached the tide of very cryptic farewells Ron's family had sent them off to school with. Everyone had been bursting to say something about whatever-it-was, but no one had actually told them a single thing that was of use.

It was apparent to the teens that something was happening at Hogwarts this year that hadn't happened for an undisclosed period of time, and the rules or guidelines of the thing, also undisclosed, had been changed. If Mrs. Weasley was to be believed, it was about time that they had. The kind witch had begged them all to behave, in any case. It was all Harry could do to keep his incredulity inside him. Such warnings were of little use. Willful and reckless were understatements when it came to the Potter twins, and Ron's skull was as thick as Hogwarts' stone walls. In fact, Harry had once blown through a section of heavy wall that was definitely thinner than his friend's head.

The sky had darkened, and the windows had fogged up so much by this point, that the aged yellow lamps were lit in order to make the train navigable. To pass the time in the gloom, they all took turns guessing at what the secret thing could be. Harry supposed that it could be some sort of magical sack race or perhaps a new form of Quidditch that took place on the backs of dragons. Charlie Weasley would have to referee because of his expertise with the flying creatures.

Ron and Hermione scoffed at him. Daisy only laughed and said that it was going to be a series of written exams each tougher than the last, and that they would take place at a public venue so everyone could see when they stuffed up. Ron muttered that he encountered that exact challenge every single year. And he always stuffed up.

"Go on then," Harry told the ginger haired boy. "What do you think it is?"

"Percy's had a hand in it," Ron began sourly. "If it isn't tests, it's a potions competition sponsored by his stupid thick-bottomed cauldrons." And Harry had to chuckle at that. Percy Weasley had been Head Boy the previous term and upon graduating school had found employment in the dullest niche the Ministry of Magic had to offer —pencil-pushing. Or was it quill-pushing?

"Oh, just drop it," said Hermione, finally having enough. "We're going to find out when we arrive, and, apparently, not a moment sooner. Read a book, will you?" The girl had to know better than to expect Ron Weasley to read school books, or story books, or any book that didn't have pictures in it, but it didn't stop her from fishing her Charms text from her bag. Hermione opened the thick book on her lap to a marked page, and unexpectedly shoved it over so that Harry could see the words too. He stared at the frizzy haired girl.

"I was looking at summoning charms earlier, Harry," said Hermione without preamble. "Wouldn't it be great if we could perform them before term starts? I can almost summon my pencil case!"

Words failed him. Harry didn't want to say that he could already do summoning charms, especially in front of Hermione. He had no intention of ever telling the girl what he had done over holiday. Hermione would probably jump off the astronomy tower if he did. But Harry couldn't just tell her to go away. Something of his struggle must have shown on his face, for Daisy gave him the same pressing look that she had before. He stared stonily back.

Daisy was entitled to her secrets and he to his. And if his predicament was any indication, Hermione was about to let spill a secret, too. Taking his silence for assent, the girl slid closer to him along the bench and was pointing to helpful passages. Her shoulder, soft and warm rubbed against him. Hermione glanced sideways at him, her cheeks heating up.

"Please, Hermione," Ron drawled as he lay back in his seat. He idly snatched at Pig. "Harry gets good marks, but he isn't some dull bookworm." Hermione crinkled her face up at Ron.

"Harry likes to learn," she said. "That doesn't mean he's a bookworm. Lots of people _like_ to learn things." Ron guffawed. His eyes had taken in just how close the girl had moved to Harry. Ron sat up.

"What, do you fancy him?" The youngest Weasley boy said in disbelief. If Hermione's face was pink before, now it matched the maroon upholstery of the train compartment.

"Do not," she said.

"Yes, you do. You fancy Harry," Ron teased. "Figures, since Daisy already has her eye on Diggory."

"What?" Harry said, sitting up straight. He had been inching away from Hermione in order to save himself from embarrassment, but now turned to face his sister. "This is Cedric Diggory?"

"Oh, left that bit out did you?" said Ron. The boy grinned as Daisy buried her face in her hands. "She _accidentally_ landed on him when we took the portkey to the Cup." Ron said the word 'accidentally' as if it meant the exact opposite thing. Harry's eyes went wide. He didn't know whether to storm out of the compartment after Diggory or collapse in laughter at Daisy's reaction.

"Erm. Landed on him, you say?"

"Yeah," Ron replied. He waggled his eyebrows. "And she went _looking_ for him when the Death oof!" Ron let out a pained sound and doubled over. Daisy had driven her elbow into his side, her face blotchy with rage and humiliation.

"It's none of your business who Hermione or I fancy, you git," Daisy growled. Ron winced and rubbed his ribs. Daisy looked at Harry, her rage being entirely clouded over by embarrassment. "And I don't fancy Cedric. He was nice to me. I wanted to make sure he was all right."

Daisy said all of this very quickly, as if she would forget the words if they couldn't get out in that instant. Harry just stared at her.

"I didn't do anything!" rushed Daisy. Her blush faded to a dull pink and she glanced at her knees. "I'm not lying. Besides, he's a seventh year!"

"Yeah," Harry said after a long pause. "Sure. When's the wedding?"

Ron laughed.

"Shut up, you!" said Hermione, coming to the aid of her friend. "I see how you look at Professor Vector at mealtimes." Ron blinked, evidently Hermione had lost him.

"Who?"

"Professor Vector," repeated Hermione.

"Is that the Arithmancy one?" he asked. Hermione nodded.

"Oh, right." Ron smiled, misty eyed, as if he were picturing the professor nude right then. Hermione made a sound like a cat that had been stepped on, and turned to Harry for assistance. He shrugged; Professor Vector was fit.

"Of course I fancy her," confirmed Ron, emerging from his daydream. "She's gorgeous!" Hermione jabbed Harry with her elbow and looked triumphant, but Ron wasn't fazed.

"What's the issue?" he said. "A bloke can fancy a pretty woman. It's not like anything is going to happen. She's a teacher."

"And Cedric is a seventh year," said Daisy. "That's the same thing, right?"

"Er, I don't think it works that way, Daisy," Ron said and scratched his head. "If Ginny told me she fancied Diggory I'd send her home straight away, strapped to a broomstick if she put up a struggle. Ask any one of my brothers and they'd tell you the same."

Ron looked pointedly at Harry. Hermione was outraged, and her fingers squeezed into his thigh through the material of his jeans. Harry hissed and pulled at the girl's arm. He looked at his sister.

"Well, I suppose you haven't left me much of a choice in the matter, have you, Daisy?" said Harry with a theatric sigh. Daisy gaped at him as he stood up. Harry stretched and unlatched the window. A hot, wet breeze blew into the booth. "Gather your things. I'll just toss you out here."

"What!"

Harry cracked a smile at the look of utter horror on her face. Seeing it, Daisy scowled and crossed her arms.

"You are the limit, Harry Potter," she said as both Ron and Hermione dissolved into giggles. Harry latched the window and swatted at her head. Daisy glanced up at him grumpily.

"I don't fancy Cedric."

"Cedric?" a voice said, as the compartment door slid open. "Cedric Diggory?" It was Fred Weasley, followed by his twin, George, and their best mate, Lee Jordan. George gave Daisy a scandalous wink.

"If I was a pretty girl," George paused. "…or even if I was an ugly girl, there's no way I _wouldn't _fancy getting my hands on dear, sweet Cedric. Hair like molten honey, he's got. And eyes you could swim laps in!"

"Oh, Cedric," Fred cut in, batting his eyelashes. "Your chest is so broad and your solitary chin hair is so manly. I wonder where else such masculine hair has sprouted! Take me, now, right here on the House table."

"Get out!" Daisy leapt to her feet, her wand flashing out from somewhere beneath her cavernous sweater. "You're not helping things!"

"Easy, easy," said Lee, holding up his hands. "We just popped by to say hullo, not to get hexed into toads. Or rabbits. Or whatever it is that fourth years can make." Daisy let out a dark growl and did not lower her wand.

"Well, there's your hello," she said. "Now, leave, before I turn you all into kippers. I bet the giant squid would love to have a snack when we arrive."

"Rude." Fred leaned into the compartment. He flicked Ron's long nose. The younger Weasley clapped his hands over his face and leaned away from his brothers. Fred looked them all over. "And we were about to let you lot in on the big secret."

"What is it?" asked Harry perking up in his seat. Hermione dropped her book, and glanced up at the twins.

"Yeah," Ron said from between his fingers. "Come on. Out with it." The twins smiled nastily at them.

"Someone just threatened to turn us into breakfast for the squid," said Lee. "I think we need an apology, first." Everyone in the compartment looked at Daisy. The girl set her hands on her hips.

"Get stuffed," said Daisy angrily. "You started it!"

"Oh dear," said George with a mock-startled look on his face. He made to leave. "That's too bad. It was cracker of a secret."

"Indeed," Fred added, waving at the fourth years. "Well, you know where to find us."

"No, we don't," said Ron.

"Oh." Lee shrugged, his dreadlocks swinging, and followed after the twins. Ron rounded on Daisy.

"Why'd you do that?" he cried. "You know how they are!"

"You," said Daisy, pointing directly at the freckled boy. "Started. It!"

"Daisy," pleaded Ron, drawing her name out. "I'm sorry. Go after them."

"No," she snapped.

"I said that I was sorry!" said Ron, and just then, as if seeing the compartment door open for the first time, Pig let out gleeful hoot, and shot out into the corridor. Ron cursed and raced after the owl in a panic.

"Serves him right," Hermione piped up as Ron scrambled out. Harry just watched with a tiny smile on his face. He was sure that the twins would get bored and come back within the hour to tell them the secret. Red faced and swearing, Ron returned to the compartment a moment later. He held his small owl by its legs and crossed to the luggage rack, tearing open the door of Pig's cage.

"Next time," said Ron seriously to the owl, "I won't come after you." Pig let out an unconcerned hoot, and began zooming about the spacious container.

"You'll be wanting me when you're stuck in a ventilation duct, you ruddy owl," Ron shot back. With a final glower at the bird, Ron slumped onto the bench and stared at Harry.

"What?" asked Harry, extricating himself from Hermione, who had crept up on him again, intent on teaching him the summoning charm.

"You let this one just scrap our chances of finding out about the whatever-it-is that's going on," said Ron. He gestured at the black haired girl that sat next to him. Daisy kicked out at the boy.

"You have _two_ family members in the Ministry, and you don't know, Weasley?" A derisive voice said from the open door. Harry let out a groan when he saw the voice's source. He thumped his head back onto the wall. They really had to start bolting the thing shut.

"Malfoy!" Daisy said leaping again to her feet. A platinum blonde girl, perhaps a hair taller than Harry's twin, stood in the doorway. She was flanked by two brutish looking boys and a pretty brunette. They were already dressed in black school robes. All four of them had green and silver patches, the colors of Slytherin House. Not that it mattered what house Malfoy was in, Harry was certain that Daisy would have hated the girl all the same.

Lyra Malfoy was Daisy Potter's arch-enemy. Harry thought that it was stupid to have an arch-enemy that was five feet tall and could be bested by a Hippogriff. Ron scrambled to shut the sliding door on their faces, but Malfoy slid past him and into the compartment. The two boys, Crabbe and Goyle, each half a foot taller and broader than their leader hustled to follow. They pushed each other roughly in their haste to get inside. In the scuffle, Ron was shoved back into his seat. The youngest Weasley boy's ears turned a shade of angry red. He stuffed his hand into his pocket to retrieve his wand.

"Save it, Weasley," said Tracey Davis. The pretty girl had pointed her own wand at him; her stern blue eyes dared him to move. Ron looked murderous. Malfoy sniffed.

"As I was saying," said the girl, looking down at Ron as if he were less than human. "Your father and brother work for the government, and they couldn't tell you what's happening this year?" Malfoy's face stretched in a merry smile that made her look like an evil blonde pixie. She looked around at all of them and said, "Or perhaps, they don't know about it?"

"Of course they know," said Ron as his face colored sharply.

"My father told me ages ago," continued Malfoy, as if Ron had not said a word. The nasty twinkle in her eye let Harry know that she had indeed heard the redhead, though. "He heard all about it from the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge."

"We know who the Minister is, Malfoy," said Hermione.

"Not all of us are as thick as you," added Daisy. "I bet Daddy has to tell you three times a day who the Minister is, just so you don't forget it."

"Shut up, Potter," Malfoy hissed, her cheeks filling with color. "I heard that you fainted at the World Cup when the mark went up!"

"And you must've been cheering your father on," Harry interrupted, his voice hot. "It takes some kind of man to wear a mask when he's torturing people." Malfoy turned on him, her face suddenly blank. All traces of a blush rapidly faded.

"I have no idea what you're on about," she said. "My father was in his tent, and exited the grounds peacefully when that awful business started." The way she drawled the last line made Harry and everyone else in the compartment feel as though she were telling a great fib.

"Besides," continued Malfoy with her eyes, grey and wicked, set on Harry. "You couldn't even get a seat. How could you know what happened?" If only seeing the World Cup had been important to him, Harry might have set the girl on fire for the tone that she had taken.

"You're right," Harry said. Malfoy looked taken aback at his lack of resistance.

"I am?" the girl asked.

"Yes," said Harry, standing up and pulling his wand out. "So either you tell us what's going on at school, or I curse you into fifty pieces to see if Lucius and his mates will come for me."

"Don't you dare accuse my father," Malfoy growled. "And I'd rather eat mud than tell you lot anything!"

"Oh, are you hungry, Malfoy?" said Daisy, leveling her wand. "Because I could feed you mud." Ron snickered. The Slytherin girl's expression grew stormy, but seeing four wands suddenly pointed at her face, she figured there was somewhere far safer to be and turned on her heel. Malfoy ushered her flock ahead into the corridor. Crabbe and Goyle, spoiling for a fight, seemed rather put out.

"I do hope you enter, Potter," Malfoy called back to them as she left. "Nothing would please me more than to see you ripped to shreds." Ron stood and slammed the compartment door shut. Pig and Hedwig screeched in their cages as the compartment rattled.

"Bloody hell, I hate her," Ron said with a snarl. The freckled boy threw himself into his seat. "Acting as if she knows everything important. Did you hear her? _My father told me_, and _He knows Cornelius Fudge_. Dad knows Fudge, too, you know and he never tortures muggles."

"Yes, of course, Ron," said Hermione gently. The girl paused, and looked at Harry and Daisy. "But were you lot paying attention? Malfoy said that Daisy could be ripped to shreds if she entered whatever-it-is!"

Ron flinched. Daisy just looked back at them with her arms crossed over her breasts, but Harry's eyes hardened. He had heard, and he had taken note. Every time that something dangerous had come to Hogwarts, Daisy always ended up in the thick of it. And it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to help get her out of trouble.

"But what is it, then?" Ron said. He exhaled loudly. "And why does _everybody_ know about it except for us!

"Oh, Malfoy probably doesn't even know," Daisy said. "When has she ever needed a reason to be a bitch?"

"Daisy!" admonished Hermione.

"She is, though," Daisy grumbled. The girl flattened herself against the seat and stared out at the pelting rain. Harry watched her. For all of her pretense and unwavering obstinacy, Daisy was not stupid. She knew the pattern as well as he did. Harry could see the cogs turning in his sister's head.

Daisy felt that every problem and fantastic monster that popped up out of the dark was hers alone to face. Harry knew that she thought it hurt him to help her. He could see the anguish in her face every time grades were posted and Harry wasn't at the top because he had been awake all night helping her brew illicit potions, and fight Basilisks, and Dementors. And Daisy loathed being so powerless that she had no choice but to turn to him for help. Harry didn't care about marks, though. He didn't care about losing sleep. He didn't care about detentions, or house points, or injuries. It would hurt him more, if anything, anything at all, happened to Daisy.

Harry had never loved a thing half as much as he loved his sister.

"Why can't all girls be like the Veela?" said Ron, pulling him from his thoughts. "You know, they're scary and all, but you're too busy being in love with them to notice that they're killing you."

"You are an idiot, Ron." Hermione sniffed.

"What?" said Ron. "I'd let you talk me to death without protest, if you had, you know…" He mimed something that looked as if he were holding two watermelons in front of him.

Daisy chuckled, finally looking away from the storm lashing at the Express. Hermione just turned bright red, and stuffed her head into the Charms book again.

So much of the ride passed with light, inane chatter. Lunch came and went. Daisy bought them all pasties and cakes from the food trolley that rumbled through corridor. They all changed into school uniforms; four Gryffindor lions reared up on their black robes. Harry occupied his time with trying to explain to Hermione that he would learn the summoning charm when term started, and had no desire to do so until then. The girl had pouted, a rather strange look on her serious face, and pleaded for him to at least help her decipher some of the foggier sections of print. Reluctantly, and to Daisy's immense delight, he acquiesced.

"I'm just going to the restroom," said Harry when Hermione hopped back towards him as he pushed the heavy textbook aside. He looked at her bemusedly. "I'll be right back."

Daisy snickered at him, and when Harry shot her a quieting look, his sister just stuck the tip of her tongue out at him.

The weather had kept most people in their places as they waited to dock at Hogsmeade Station. The corridor was quiet, save for the occasional loud remark that floated through closed compartment doors, and the pattering of rain on the windows. Harry only saw a pudgy Hufflepuff second year on his way to the loo, and no one on his return journey. He had nearly concluded his walk, when a booth slid open noisily, and a lone blonde stepped into the dim passage. The girl shut the door behind her. Harry slowed his pace. It was Malfoy. She hadn't seen him, or was ignoring him, at the very least, and was walking in the direction of Harry's compartment. Harry narrowed his eyes.

In a few strides, he caught up to the Slytherin.

"Malfoy!" Harry called. He reached out and gave her shoulder a quick prod. The girl started, jolting his fingers from her arm, and spun. Her wand was in hand.

"Ruddy hell," the girl hissed, as her hair settled unevenly on her shoulder. "What are you doing sneaking up on me, Potter?"

"I didn't sneak up on you," said Harry, cocking is head to one side. "I practically stomped over and grabbed you."

"Do you think that I'm stupid?" said Malfoy. The girl smoothed her robes, brushing off invisible banks of dust from her chest and shoulders. "Why would I pretend that you had crept up on me? Get lost."

Harry groaned.

"Look, I don't know what's rocketing about inside that thick skull of yours," he said. "I only wanted to ask you a question."

"Oh, you did? And I suppose those muggles didn't teach you to ask nicely for the things that you want?" said Malfoy. She smirked up at him, then spun back around, and began to walk down the corridor. Harry stood with his feet planted in the burgundy carpet and stared after the wicked girl. Then, cursing himself, followed.

"Finally finished with that mudblood?" asked Malfoy with a kind of cruel humor in her voice. Apparently now she had no problem realizing that Harry was following after her. They were nearing his compartment.

"Don't you call Hermione that word, Malfoy," said Harry. He reached out and caught the Slytherin's robes at the shoulder. "And what do you mean finished with her?"

"Don't touch me," said Malfoy haughtily. She jerked the cloth from his grip. The girl looked up at him, and somehow peered down at him at the same time. Perhaps looking like an arse was a skill that all Malfoys were taught as children. Harry gave her a dirty look. Malfoy's smile was very white, and very unsettling. "Oh, don't be thick, Potter. Little Miss Cleverboots is besotted with you."

"She is not," Harry said through gritted teeth. He hated that the Slytherin was right, but it wasn't as though Hermione had made a grand secret of her intentions. Malfoy made an odd sound, and continued to walk down the train car, and kept walking right past Harry's compartment. He hurried to catch up to her.

"And where is it that you're off to?"

"Was that your question, Potter?" said Malfoy amusedly as he caught up to her. She looked up at his face, and blinked. Then the girl threw her head back and cackled. "Oh, that's brilliant! You thought I was off to harangue you lot again?"

"Aren't you?"

"No." The delight in her voice was almost too much for Harry to bear. He should have just left the girl alone. He would never live this down. Malfoy leered up at him. "I have better things to do than visit blood traitors and _mudbloods_." She practically purred the last word like some sharp-toothed cat that was toying with its food. It was hard for Harry to contain his rage, then. His hands clenched into fists.

"Shut it," Harry ground out. "Or I'll curse you."

"Why?" said Malfoy. She shrugged. "Granger's a mudblood. Look, I'll say it again. Mud. Blood."

"_Afflatus_." A swift gust of wind burst from Harry's wand, rattling the train car ever so slightly. It struck the mean girl in the midsection, and sent her sprawling. Malfoy sat up, her long hair utterly windswept, and snarled at him. Scrambling to her feet, the Slytherin brought her wand to bear on him.

"You stupid, half-blooded savage, I'll—" The girl's voice suddenly disappeared as Harry jabbed his wand again, silencing her. Malfoy's face was an incandescent red. Quite mute, the girl bellowed spells, but could not get any of them to work. Harry stepped close to her, batting her hand away, and pointed his wand at her neck. Malfoy froze.

"Two conditions," said Harry. "You don't call my friend that word. And you tell me what it is that's going to happen at Hogwarts. Then I'll give your voice back, you harpy." Harry watched the girl's dainty hands ball up; she looked as if she was going to punch him. Harry gave her a cheerful look, and poked her throat with his wand.

"Fisticuffs, Malfoy?" he said. "And you're always on about how magic is better than muggle savagery?" She looked murderous.

"I could just jinx you, you know," Harry told her. He leaned in and said in a low voice, "I wonder how long it would take for you to hobble back to your friends with your legs locked together." Malfoy snarled silently at him, but nodded and jerked her head away from his wand.

"_Finite_," said Harry. Malfoy rubbed her throat and coughed, testing her voice. She looked at him poisonously. Harry crossed his arms.

"Right," he said. "Cough up."

"Piss off," said Malfoy. And faster than Harry could react, the girl pointed her wand at him and growled something out. Harry caught the curse in the gut. A cracking pain blossomed across his ribs. He couldn't help but gasp in agony. And all of a sudden Malfoy stood over him. The yellow light of the ceiling lamps was very bright in his eyes.

"Silence me like I'm some wayward child, will you, Potter?" Malfoy said; her newfound voice was shrill. "I'm going to gut you for that." Harry breathed heavily through his nostrils, and stifled a hiss at the pain in his side. It was fading from excruciating to merely terrible, but the lights were still dazzling. The Slytherin girl pointed her wand down at him.

And Harry grabbed at her ankle viciously. His fingers closed around her calf and he wrenched her down. Malfoy let out a shriek and fell heavily onto her back. Harry sat up with another gasping breath and reached out to rip the wand from the dumbstruck blonde's grasp.

"Sorry," he said through a grimace. "I like my guts." Unable to stand, Harry pressed his palm onto the girl's shoulder, pinning her to the carpeting, and pointed her own wand at her. Fear and rage waged war across Malfoy's face. Harry leaned over her.

"I had pictured this going smoother," he said. "Now, just tell me what's going to happen at school, Malfoy. Is it dangerous?"

"Are you frightened, Potter?" Malfoy asked. She peered up at his pained face. Harry tried to force it away and prodded the girl with the stick.

"No."

"You look frightened," she said. Malfoy shifted beneath him, struggling to force Harry off of her. He held her down.

"Just answer the question, Malfoy," said Harry. He jabbed the wand, red sparks fizzled against the girl's pale skin, eliciting a startled hiss. Harry didn't blink. "I'm not going to be merciful twice in one day."

"I doubt it." Malfoy pushed up at him fruitlessly. Harry just watched her, eyes hard. He really should have just jinxed the girl, and left her in the corridor. And then a curious expression fixed itself on Malfoy's face. She stopped struggling.

"You really did kill that beast, didn't you?" said Malfoy. She blew pale hair away from her paler face.

"What?" said Harry.

"Lupin," Malfoy elaborated. Her voice was of clear of its usual scorn, and filled with something unrecognizable. "You killed him."

"Shutup," Harry said instantaneously. Something pounded very hard in his ears. It took him a moment to realize it was the beat of his heart. Lupin. There was a sudden flash of heat in his chest as the name rang in his head. Harry's fingers bit into the girl's slender shoulder through the dark cloth of her robes. A wounded sound dribbled through Malfoy's lips. But Harry didn't care. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" said Malfoy. Something glinted through the pain in her eyes. "You did it. Not Professor Snape."

"Shut," said Harry. "Up."

"I knew it; everyone said you couldn't be a killer. But I knew. _You _killed Lupin."

And then Harry wasn't on the Hogwarts Express, and Malfoy wasn't staring at him with those curious eyes, and his chest didn't feel as though she had slugged him with a cricket bat.

But blood, hot and angry, still thundered in his ears.

It was dark, and he was running. Soil and brush crunched beneath his trainers as he chased Peter Pettigrew through the Forbidden Forest. Harry Potter was good at running. Excellent even. He ran all the goddamned time. And it only ever seemed to be in two directions: away from trouble and towards trouble. This time, though, when he caught that dirty great rat, it was going to be in trouble. He let out a wheezing laugh.

When Harry caught Peter, it would all be over. He would be able to go to school, and study, and become just as brilliant as Albus Dumbledore. Daisy would be able to leave her terrible relatives. The two of them would finally have someone to take care of them, to treat them like family, and take them on trips and to the zoo. It didn't matter if he was a gaunt, yellow-teethed madman that ate mice or not.

Best of all, Lord Voldemort would never bother any of them again. Harry's feet pounded into the dirt. He pushed the low hanging limbs of trees aside; a fleeting glimpse of a long pink tail caught his eye.

"We won't kill you, Peter," Harry called, for there was no way to sneak up on a rat in the dark. His lungs screamed for more air as he hustled along. "You just need to tell the truth and no one will hurt you."

Harry was lying, though. Peter was going to be hurt. If Professor Dumbledore and Minister Fudge didn't send the rodent to prison for eternity, Harry was going to wring the vile man's neck himself. That in mind, Harry pursued the fat rat like a mongoose after a snake.

Bluish light spilled from his wand and kept Peter just visible as he scampered along what seemed to Harry as the most troublesome route in the whole forest. The boy stumbled through a thorny bush, prickling his legs and arms, and made a grab at the brown flash that wriggled just beyond his fingertips.

On second thought, he was going to wring Peter's neck no matter what.

Harry could not be certain what Professor Trelawney's words had meant, after all. Perhaps the only way to prevent the Dark Lord's revival was to end Peter's miserable existence. Harry snatched at the rat again to no avail. As he chased on, Harry could see the thin woman's enormous spectacles in front of him. Her body was rigid, nearly seizing, as she spoke to him over the jangle of her many bracelets, and beads, and necklaces.

"_It will happen tonight_," Trelawney had said. Her voice was bereft of the airy, ethereal sound that it had always oozed. This voice was dark. Grave. "_The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, abandoned by his followers. His servant has been chained these twelve years. Tonight, before midnight... the servant will break free and set out to rejoin his master. The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant's aid, greater and more terrible than ever he was. Tonight... before midnight... the servant... will set out... to rejoin... his master..._"

Peter was the servant.

And maybe Azkaban wasn't enough to stop him returning to his master. Harry steeled himself. He knew what the only way to permanently stop a man from doing something was, and he could do it. Couldn't he? He could kill Peter Pettigrew. What did it matter? The man had been dead for twelve years already and a greater and more terrible Dark Lord was the absolute last thing that Harry Potter wanted.

There was a grating howl somewhere in the gloom of the wood. It was answered by the loud barks of dog. Harry forced himself to keep glued to the pursuit of Peter. Sirius could hold off Professor Lupin. Harry had to grab the rat. The wolf's howl turned into a guttural bark. It was closer. Harry saw Peter Pettigrew scurry beneath a newly budding flower bush. He stamped on it and watched the rat shoot off again into the dark.

"Peter," Harry called. "You can't run forever." The rat had to know that. Harry would never let the man just disappear into some dark burrow.

Something glittered through the treetops. It was the gleaming face of a full moon. There was a soft chattering and Harry saw the rat's bald tail slither towards a clearing. A clearing surely meant open ground for Harry to catch his quarry. He sped off, but was tripped up by an exposed root in his haste. Harry tumbled to the ground.

At the edge of the clearing the rat turned to look back at fallen boy. The thing's mouth twitched to show its nasty rat-toothed smile. Harry's blood boiled as Peter bounded excitedly for a pit beneath an uprooted sapling.

"_Incarcerous_," cried Harry desperately. He pushed himself to his feet. He had sacrificed his light for an attempt to bind the rodent, but the slivers of black rope had coiled about empty air. The bottom fell out of his stomach, and his heart fell into the abyss

"No, no, no, no, no." Harry ran, his legs burning, into the clearing, and peered down the hole that Peter had flown into. The furrow was like an inkwell. He fell to his knees and reached inside, his fingers groped about, but the thing was too small for more than Harry's forearm to reach inside. He lit his wand. There was nothing but roots and loam.

"Peter. It will be all right," Harry lied softly. "If you come out, now, I'll plead for them not to give you up to the Dementors." There was no reply from the hole in the ground. Harry flashed the wand into it again, but still no rat.

"Last chance," said Harry into the burrow. Nothing. "_Incendio_."

A gout of red fire spurted into the earth. Roots burned and shriveled; the dirty leaves and rotting plant matter at the bottom of the hole turned to ash. Harry could feel the heat on his skin. Peter had to come out.

There was pained howl again in the dark, very close this time. But it wasn't Professor Lupin. It was a girl. Harry's heart stopped. The voice echoed in his ears. It was Daisy. And then there was the slow and hungry cry of a wolf. He looked away from the burrow. The flames went out. There was a squeal of joy, and the rat shot out of the hole and away.

Harry let him go.

Again his feet were kicking up dirt and leaves; he ran towards the full moon. Daisy lay at the black lake's shore, with Hermione at her side, as Sirius Black and Remus Lupin ripped at each other. The dog that was their godfather, black as coal and built like a shaggy bull had its jaws around the werewolf professor's flank. The wolf, snarling and screaming, did not seem anything like the mild-mannered man trapped underneath its fur. They wrestled. Yellow teeth and glinting claws were tangled up in tawny fur and black hair, until Sirius was finally torn free of the wolf. The sinister beast seized the dog by the throat and threw it into the shoals. And Sirius stayed down yowling like a pet that had been kicked. The agony of the sound tore at Harry's heart.

The werewolf stalked towards Hermione and Daisy. Harry sprinted forward, all soreness and fatigue gone. As he drew closer, the looks of fear on the girls' faces came into sharp relief. And something else caught his eye, drawing all of his attention away from the werewolf. Daisy was bleeding. A cut on her face, long and glistening, bled purple in the blue light of the moon. Hermione was holding his sister's side as she suppressed her agonized gasps. Was she wounded elsewhere as well?

The hollow cavern of his chest that had once held his thundering heart filled with a seething rage. Daisy was bleeding. The anger burned him inside. He felt it creep into his throat and surge into his arms, rattling the very bones of his extremities. He felt it curl his fingers into fists so tight that he thought he would crush his wand and draw blood from his palms. Daisy was bleeding because he had left her. The fury splashed madly inside him and he could feel the raging of his heart in his jaw. The werewolf had made Daisy bleed. Harry did not feel his legs carry him forward. He couldn't think over the red thunder in his ears. The flashes of heat in his face and the torrid wind of breath coursing over his dry lips were too much. All of his thoughts grew dim. His vision was hazy. All that he could see was the long cut on his sister's cheek and the blood that leaked from it.

His blood.

"_Incendio_." It was a creaking whisper. A croak, nothing more than that, and the wolf went up in flames. It howled in pain, its gaze jerked from the pair of girls and onto Harry. The fire ate its fur. Harry didn't stop moving towards his sister. The wolf gave a shuddering roar and leapt into the black waters of the lake to douse the fire on its skin. Harry hurried on, his eyes fixed on Daisy's wound.

The wolf hit him in the chest. Rage, red and blinding, filled Harry's eyes. It didn't matter that the force of the blow had knocked all the wind from his lungs. The sudden hot pain in his side didn't faze him. Harry looked up as the wolf's jaws opened above him. His wand came up and blasted the creature off.

The werewolf gave a yelp of startled pain. New air pushed into Harry's chest. He staggered to his feet and watched as the wolf hissed and spat, debating its next assault. Fire had burned away the fur on its back, leaving the skin waxy and pink and bleeding. Deep gouges from Sirius' claws had painted its underside red. The wolf turned, and Harry's rage filled eyes caught a glimpse of an odd dent in the thing's side. A broken bone, perhaps. Harry didn't know why, but he charged towards the wolf then.

"Harry, no!" came Hermione's voice. It was dim, somewhere behind him and it did not mean a thing. All Harry could see was the wolf. Daisy was bleeding and hurt because of the wolf. And now the vile animal was hurt and bleeding and Harry was filled with a strange drive to make sure it knew the reason why.

"_Incendio_," Harry spat. Fire lanced towards the wolf. The flame went just wide, as the animal moved, and for a moment the night was orange as a great fire swallowed what little fuel littered the shore of the black lake. The wolf gave one growl and took off over the lawn.

Angry, Harry gave chase.

The Whomping Willow, pacified, stood before them like a withered head of steamed broccoli. The wolf could run no longer. Broken and tired, it faced Harry, with a wild sort of resolve glinting in the dark thing's bright eyes. One last bout, they seemed to say. Ali boma ye. Grass on either side of the wolf had been burnt away by the young wizard's effort to catch the great beast. And caught it he had. It's tail was bent and hung limp. Betrayed by its injuries and shuffling gait, a single pale flame burned at an what fur remained on the werewolf's side. The wolf gathered its legs beneath it and shot towards Harry with a maddened howl.

Claws ripped the long sleeves of Harry's robes. Fire lit the night again. Harry was knocked to the ground, gasping for breath. The werewolf shuffled, yipping at the new flames that bit its tail. Harry said no words, but let out a trembling snarl. He shoved himself up onto his side. The wolf screamed and charged brokenly at the boy again. Its jaws clackered open and shut madly. Harry's wand was knocked from his grip.

A flash of terror pushed through the immense fury in him. Harry's hand dove into the folds of his dark robes. The wolf's maw drove at him again, spittle flying. And Harry jammed the fat blade of his knife into the animal's exposed neck. The wolf reeled, and then surged back. Harry stabbed again; he pulled the knife down the tender flank of the burned creature. Hot and foul, blood poured onto him. The beast howled. Harry tore the blade from its side and plunged it again into the wolf's throat and ripped until he felt bone. The creature's howl bubbled into nothingness. It made a last feeble attempt to bite him. and then collapsed, turning into dead weight.

The wolf stared at Harry with its wide amber eyes and frothy white mouth.

The heat of Harry's anger faded as hot blood, pumped by the wolf's dying heart, spurted into his open mouth. Coughing and spitting, he tried to push the dead creature from him. It was no use. The wolf pinned Harry to the burnt lawn covered in red, red blood. Harry's throat tightened as thought returned to him. He was covered in Professor Lupin's blood.

And then it felt as though everything he had ever eaten came surging up from roiling pit of his stomach and spewed forth. It mixed with the steaming blood that sloughed from the wolf's slashed throat and fell again onto his face. Harry vomited again, uselessly.

_Bang._

The sound was like a gunshot. The wolf's corpse flew, ragdoll limp, from atop Harry and careened bloodily through the air. There were two more bangs, two silver flashes, and then one green sinister bolt of light.

"Potter," said Snape breathing heavily. "Did it bite you?" The hook-nosed man looked down at the boy that was covered in blood and vomit. His pallid face was full of worry. Harry had never seen the man look at him, or his sister, with anything but disdain or anger. Trembling, Harry shook his head and tried to sit up. The potions master pressed him back down; he was unaffected by the sticky red that coated the teen's clothes and rubbed onto his long fingers. The moonlight shone on Snape's greasy hair. "Stay still, boy. Stay _still_."

Harry dribbled more of his professor's blood onto his torn robes. Snape crossed the lawn to where the werewolf's dead body had fallen, burnt and bleeding. Harry saw the thin man look between Harry and the wolf.

"I killed him," said Harry weakly, to clarify it for himself as much as for Snape. "I killed Professor Lupin."

"I will not listen to such nonsense, Potter," said Snape, his back snapping straight up. The condescension was back in the man's voice. "_You_ kill a werewolf?"

Snape moved back towards Harry as the boy managed to sit up. Harry winced as a crackle of pain shot up his chest. His ribcage was on fire.

"Listen," said Harry, each word hurt as it came up. "Daisy and Hermione are with Sirius. Daisy's hurt." Snape followed Harry's gaze to towards the lake. The man pressed Harry back down.

"Put your head back, Potter, I will not be held responsible for your concussion," said Snape. Harry stared up at the man perplexed. Snape pulled his wand out again and stood.

"Concussion?" asked Harry.

"_Stupefy_."

Harry knew no more.

There was a strangled hiss of pain, beneath him. The train car rumbled along the tracks. Raindrops, fat and strong, splattered against the foggy windows. Harry could feel the heat in his face. His fingers were curled violently about something soft and pulsing. His thumb ran along smooth black cloth.

"Let go," said Malfoy. "Potter, you're hurting me." Harry threw the skinny, honey colored wand away from him. He grasped Malfoy's other shoulder and snarled.

"Does it look like I care, Malfoy?" But he relaxed his fingers. The girl's eyes were bright with unshed tears. She sniffed, but the curious expression hadn't left her stare. The Slytherin girl's cheeks had turned pink with rushing blood. Harry shuddered as he remembered the taste of it. He spat, a dreadful taste in his mouth. "Tell me why I shouldn't make sure that you never, ever leave the Hospital wing again."

Lyra Malfoy didn't speak for a moment, just stared at him. Harry sucked in a few deep breaths and tried to calm his racing heartbeat.

"It's the Triwizard Tournament." she said at last. Her gaze didn't move from his face as he fought to control his rage. "That's what's happening this year."

Tournament? Harry sat back; his fury burned out and was replaced by inquisitiveness. He pushed Malfoy away from him.

"What is it?" The train started to swing around a bend in the tracks. Harry leaned, all of a sudden weary, against the wall of the car. Malfoy still lay on the ground, her hair spread around her. She rubbed her shoulder in slow circles and made a quiet sound of pain.

"A tournament, with three wizards," said the blond girl after a long time. "Or witches. From three different schools of magic."

"And you're going to enter?" said Harry. His fingers had tunneled into the carpet of the corridor. What other schools of magic there were there? He had only ever heard of people going to Hogwarts. Was there a place called Boarboils in Wales?

"Bloody hell, no," Malfoy told him; her pained expression was gone. "People die in the tournament. Father says they've made it a lot safer this time around. But regardless I don't like the sound of fighting bloodthirsty beasts." Malfoy gave him an unreadable look.

"Beasts?" asked Harry.

"You'd probably be good at it," she said, ignoring his question. "Probably fit right in with the manticores and the kelpies or whatever they've got waiting."

Without warning, Malfoy pulled down the shoulder of her robe. Harry flinched at the sudden appearance of pale skin, but then looked positively sick. He could see the marks his fingers had left in her shoulder, broad and red and angry.

"That's going to bruise remarkably well," said Malfoy. There was no heat in her voice, though.

"Sorry," said Harry.

"No, you're not." Malfoy propped herself up on an elbow, not bothering to pull her robes up, and watched Harry stare at darkening bruise.

"Well. You shouldn't have said what you did, if you didn't want a reaction," said Harry. His jaw tensing, he turned away.

"I wanted to see if it was true," said Malfoy.

"I didn't say that it was."

"But it is."

Harry was silent. He saw Malfoy reach for her wand, and instinctively he looked for his, but found nothing. Malfoy threw something at him. The familiar instrument struck him on the nose and fell onto his lap.

"Thanks," he said.

"_Illido_," said Malfoy in response. It was as if an invisible hand had slapped him with a brick. His head flew back and thudded against the wall of the train. Harry grunted in pain, but held himself from reacting at the sight of the red and purple marks on the girl's skin. Malfoy smiled darkly at him.

"You don't hit girls, Potter," she said.

"Oh, piss off," said Harry, ignoring the wetness collecting at corners of his eyes. He rubbed his jaw, feeling it swell. It was going to bruise, probably just as well as Malfoy's. "Call it quits?"

The door of a compartment slid open.

"What is going on out here?" Hermione barked into the corridor. "People are trying to—" Her voice petered out into a squeak. Hermione's face was a brighter red than Ron's hair. Her eyes wide, she stared at the two people that lay sprawled in the corridor. This time Harry banged his head into the wall of his own accord.

Malfoy's robes were half off. Both of them were sweaty and ruddy skinned, and to top it off, Harry had never seen the blonde Slytherin's hair in worse shape. Harry closed his eyes.

"It's not what it…"

"Shut up!" Hermione cried. He heard the compartment door slam shut. Harry opened one eye. Malfoy was putting herself back together and Ron and Daisy's faces were pressed comically up against the single glass pane of the compartment door. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, then carefully opened them again. It didn't help.

Daisy's face was stormier than the gale that batted at the Hogwarts Express. Ron was almost purple. Harry saw Malfoy stand and smooth her clothes. The girl gave him a lingering look, and turned to continue along the train.

"Where are you off to?" asked Harry.

"I was going to get something to drink," said Malfoy. "But then somebody accosted me."

"Oh," said Harry. "Sorry."

"No, you're not," said Malfoy. "Fair trade and all that."

"Sure," Harry said with a snort. He really didn't think that Malfoy believed in fair trade. "When does it start?"

"I suppose we'll find out tonight," the blonde said, then very loudly added, "Thanks for the tumble, Potter."

Harry could hear Daisy's scream through the glass.

* * *

**AN: Thank you for reading. Feel free to voice concerns, opinions, etc. **


	3. On Agriculture

**Some of you may have already read this at DLP. The chapter was getting a little too massive, so I'm breaking it up. ****Anyhow.**

**Pop Art-illery. **

* * *

**Two**

**On Agriculture**

Plants of all color, leaves of all shape, cluttered the grubby glass panes and crawled along the wrought iron skeleton of greenhouse three. Bell shaped blossoms sprung from woody vines that twisted along the roof. They snapped their jaws at buzzing insects, and bared their vivid throats for sunlight.

It was surprising that any sort of light got through the clutter at all. But in it dropped, fluttering about like sheets of yellow chiffon, and stippled the tables, the hungry plants, and the working students alike with warmth.

Harry sat at his table, a wriggling plant in his grip. It shot up from the soil of its terra-cotta pot like a midnight black slug, covered in oily blisters. It was a Bubotuber, and Harry was to harvest its pus. Newly Fourth Year Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors surrounded him in a lagoon of droning conversation, but it was just a tapping to the thunder in his head.

Every time Harry gave the Bubotuber a twist or squeeze, Mad-Eye Moody's wooden leg _thunked_ in his head. And the black plant would not cease its wiggling protest, so Harry flexed his fingers and squeezed the rubbery thing even more vigorously. Struggle as it might, the plant was only aiding him. The more it fought, the easier its growths burst open.

_Thunk!_ Moody's clawed foot crashed against the floor of the Great Hall, and Harry reached out to capture fresh pus in his sun-dappled mason jar.

The pus smelled of petrol, and it had the consistency of a thick soup; Harry knew it, but all he could smell was Hogwarts' welcoming feast, rain soaked cloaks, and gentle paraffin candles. His stomach gurgled. He hadn't eaten much for breakfast. There was already too much to digest.

"_Smith!_"

Harry's eyes jumped from the Bubotuber. Professor Sprout's voice had cut through the din of students and the clatter of Moody's leg. She shouted something at a Hufflepuff boy that had gotten flecks of the Bubotuber's pus on his cheek. The boy shrieked and hurried towards the professor for aid. Harry crinkled his forehead; Smith was an idiot. He turned back to his plant.

Beside him, Neville Longbottom chuckled. The pudgy boy was handling his own Bubotuber, tongue between teeth. Several jars of pus were already collected on his section of table. Generally timid and slow to learn, Herbology was the only class that Neville ever did well in. Harry didn't begrudge him the success. Neville was a nice fellow.

Harry spared a phantom smile, and returned his attention again to the Bubotuber. The scent of petrol was heavy in his nostrils. The sun painted his desk dark green and red and yellow.

And then violent fingers of lightning speared across the enchanted ceiling. Moody's scarred face was illuminated in white and black. The Auror's lips were twisted; his unblinking blue eye rolled and came up backwards, milky white.

_Thunk. _The pus missed the jar and spilled onto the table. Harry didn't react right away. More pus dribbled through his gloved fingers. He shook them, sprinkling Bubotuber juice onto the table and made to grab his wand.

"Yuck, Harry!" called Daisy. She grabbed his messy dragon leather glove with hers. It was cleaner, but only marginally so. Daisy whipped her wand out from beneath her robes and nudged him over as she cleaned the mess.

"_Scourgify!_" His twin dropped his hand and gave him a dirty look. "Didn't you listen to Sprout? The pus is dangerous."

"Sorry, sorry," muttered Harry. He dipped his head and absently waved a hand, before squeezing the Bubotuber again. Daisy's eyes did not leave him.

"What?" he asked, turning his head.

Daisy had bound her hair up, for gardening safety, of course, but a good amount of it had escaped restraint and wiffled about her ears and neck. Added with her furrowed brow and quirked lips, the girl looked extra wild this morning.

"You're thinking about something," she said.

"I'm always thinking about something, Daisy."

"Don't be difficult," she said, bumping his shoulder with hers. "Spit it out."

Daisy capped a jar and plucked one more from the crate on their table. Harry frowned. Beside her, Ron was locked in combat with his plant and had yet to collect a measurable amount of pus. He was mumbling curses under his breath as he wrestled with the Bubotuber.

The more colorful words were directed at Professor Sprout, rather than his uncooperative plant. Harry peered over the redhead, making certain that the professor was far enough away that she didn't hear him. However he could not see much beyond Hermione's great thicket of hair. Mainly because the girl was sitting with her back turned to him. His frown deepened.

"Harry!"

"What?"

"What are you thinking about?" asked Daisy.

"Moody," replied Harry in an undertone. He didn't want Neville or Ron to know just how disturbed he was by the retired Auror's presence at Hogwarts. Daisy's eyebrows rose.

"Why?" she said, matching his tone and leaning in towards him. Harry didn't say anything, and Daisy took it as a directive to press on. "I mean, they say he's mad and all, and I know how much you fancy Dumbledore's brand of madness, but Moody's just a nutter. Ron's dad had to fix his dustbins before he could even get to Hogwarts."

Harry held up a pus covered hand.

"Stop. I just," he paused, "I didn't know that's what Aurors ended up like."

"Don't you worry," said Daisy, patting his glove with hers. An impish smile turned her lips up at the corners. "You won't lose your nose."

"It's not my nose!" said Harry a little too loudly. Neville started, and just barely managed to catch the squirt of pus in his container.

"Your nose?" the boy questioned. Concern flooded his face. "Did you get Bubotuber pus on it? I'll call the professor."

"No, Neville," said Daisy, leaning over her brother. "Harry's worried that all Aurors end up like Mad-Eye Moody." She made a face. "You know, maimed and crazy."

"I'm not!" said Harry to Neville, but at Daisy's comment, the boy had turned a shade of white so stark he might have been marble. Without speaking, Neville averted his gaze and stiffly went back to harvesting pus.

Harry pushed his own pot away. What did Neville know about Moody? Harry almost asked, but the question died on his tongue.

Neville's knuckles were white. His plant, which moments earlier had been in easy submission, trembled. Harry shook his head, and tried to stop Daisy from upsetting the boy further, but she ignored him.

"Neville?" asked Daisy. She bit the corner of her lip. "You all right?"

"Yeah," whispered Neville at length. "Fine." He turned his back, just as Hermione had, and so Harry was left with only his twin for company as the class dragged on. At least he was not the only person that had the new Defense professor on his mind.

Daisy was saying something about the Bubotubers. Harry nodded, not really listening.

Something more than Moody's disfigurement was bothering him, though. Professor Dumbledore was the most powerful man Harry had ever seen. He defeated evil wizards and drove fear into the Dark Lord Voldemort. And Dumbledore still had a nose and both of his legs.

But rather than teach children, Moody had actively pursued criminals. And he was good at it. For his effort, the man had acquired a reputation for destroying almost as many enemies as he created. As a result, Mad-Eye Moody's paranoia knew no rival. He never accepted strange food; he never drank from anything but his flask, and he was always watching with his Mad-Eye.

Angelina Johnson had joked last night that Moody was suspicious of the dust mites in his books and the snot stains on his handkerchief.

"They say he retired," Angelina had said. "But my mum says that after he enchanted all of his inkwells to squirt anyone that entered his office without a proper pass-phrase, they just bundled his crazy arse out."

Everyone had laughed, but the comment set Harry's teeth on edge. The dustbins and scars and inkwells were jarring, but that was not what niggled at him.

What concerned him was the need for the Headmaster to pull a man with Mad-Eye Moody's tendencies out of retirement. If they were that hard up for teachers, Snape would have taken the Defence post with glee. Snape would have no qualms about teaching two subjects. It would mean double the torment. Harry grabbed the Bubotuber and sank deeper into his thoughts.

The train had pulled into Hogsmeade station only a half hour after his confrontation with Malfoy.

Harry and his friends sped through the driving rain and up to the black carriages that waited at the gates. The great dark-skinned horses that were reined to them seemed utterly ignorant of the weather. The rain struck their scaly wings and then slid off, leaving no wetness behind.

The students weren't so lucky as the Thestrals. Thoroughly drenched after the short sprint, they clambered up into the carriage in a jumble of squeals and curses.

Hermione, who had ignored Harry's explanation of the ruckus in the corridor, made it a point to sit near him and silently bore into his skull with an unrelenting glower. He tried speaking to her, but she only stared more fiercely at him. So, Harry was forced to stare out the tiny window of the carriage as it trundled along the drive and circled the castle grounds.

Wind rattled the windows. Rain drummed into the roof and dug into the mud of the drive. Harry saw the trees that lined the path bend and sway under the force of it all, and whenever they turned, he could feel the carriage's wheels skitter just a little bit.

Lightning flashed overhead and threw the sprawling grounds into an spectral brilliance. The sky was black and boiling with clouds, but the pulse of violet light made the wet lawn sparkle, and the shadowy trees grin.

Harry could see movement, almost like a slideshow, whenever the lightning struck. In one flash, as the carriage bucked over a fissure in the drive, there was the gleaming white profile of a unicorn at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. In the next flash, it was caught, mid-leap, bounding over the fence of the school's paddock. Lightning flashed again, and it was gone.

Harry pressed his face into the glass.

There were more dozens of other flashes of movement in the forest. Once, Harry saw, not a creature, great mass of inky shadow lurking in the fringes of undergrowth. Fogging the glass with his breath, he peered closely at the spot, but by the next strike of lightning, whatever it was had gone.

He used the sleeve of his robes to clear the glass in search of more things. Thunder rumbled overhead. There was a flash of light in the dark, but it wasn't the storm. It was a blast of blue flame.

The light splashed out, batting away the storm's murk. Harry sucked a breath in through his teeth.

There was someone out in the gale.

He had only seconds to wait for the next burst of light.

The wizard stood at the edge of the lawn, covered in a grey hood. He seemed oddly hunch-backed, leaning against a gnarled staff, waving his wand overhead. The rain shimmered and smattered against a barrier that surrounded him like an invisible egg. The lightning's glow receded, but again the figure sent a wave of blue light that lit the lawn around him. The hooded man turned, and Harry caught sight of something white glinting beneath the cowl.

"Daisy," hissed Harry.

"Hmm?" his sister answered. "Did you see another pretty unicorn?" Ron snickered, and even Hermione made an amused sound from his elbow. Harry just grasped the front of Daisy's robes and hauled her before the window. Again the wizard in the storm casted a spell.

"So?" said Daisy. "It's probably Flitwick making sure that the forest doesn't topple over onto the castle."

"Since when does Flitwick walk around with a cane?" asked Harry; his glasses clinked against the window pane.

"It's probably Dumbledore, then," said Ron, standing to peer into the dark with them. "He likes his theatrics."

Daisy nodded, patted his shoulder, and returned to her seat. Harry made a frustrated sound. That wasn't Dumbledore. He knew what Dumbledore looked like. That was someone else, and he was casting spells on their grounds. A cold feeling pooled in his gut, reminding him of the Dementor patrols last term.

"It's not the Headmaster."

He relished the look of disbelief on their faces when Moody clunked into the Great Hall with his twisted staff and grey hood. But Harry's triumph didn't last long. Mad-Eye Moody ignored the entirety of the student body, made a face at the sorting hat, and stumped up to the staff table.

He began to whisper into Professor Dumbledore's ear, Mad-Eye whirling. Harry watched their interaction with a surging trepidation. The Triwizard Tournament was far more dangerous than Malfoy had let on.

The feast came and went. Harry poked at the honeyed duck, and moved the vegetables around his plate. He even let Ron have his pudding. Whatever appetite he had cultivated was gone. All through the dinner, he caught both Dumbledore and Moody stealing glances at Daisy.

Harry supposed that Dumbledore knew his sister just as well as he did. He had imposed an age restriction on the tournament, forbidding anyone under seventeen from entering the competition.

It didn't prevent Daisy from adding her voice to the protest, though. And although she said that the Tournament didn't interest her, Harry noticed how Daisy's face colored as she shifted her eyes from his and across to the Hufflepuff table where Cedric Diggory sat whispering with his house-mates.

Was the Headmaster not enough to protect the students this year? Could he not prevent anything else from happening to Daisy? He tried to catch Dumbledore's attention, but the old man seemed to settle his gaze on everything but Harry.

"Aha!" cried Ron, and Harry was jerked from his reminiscence. The boy held a jar full of milky green fluid up to the light. "Filled one!"

Daisy snorted. She patted the boy's shoulder and pointed to the box full of jars.

"Bugger." Ron slumped down in his seat.

Laughing quietly, Harry turned back to his plant, and popped one of the Bubotuber's blisters with the edge of his thumb.

_Thunk._

** :::**

Professor Sprout turned them loose with a demand for an essay on the use of Bubotuber pus in potions, due next class. As if Harry's mood wasn't dark enough. He had very little use for potions, their ingredients, or the slimy men that brewed them.

"Imagine," Harry muttered to his twin as they threw their dragonhide gloves into the bin and walked down the rolling lawn, "the look on Snape's face if we replaced all of the Bubotuber pus with actual pus."

"Gross," said Daisy. She wrinkled her nose, and reached up to free her hair.

A gaggle of fourth year girls strolled by them and proceeded through the sodden vegetable patch in a cloud of chatter. When the girls reached the castle's wide stone steps, they split up with loud cries of 'See you,' and 'Have fun in Potions!' Harry suspected the latter remark was sarcastic. The Gryffindor fourth years were on their way to Care of Magical Creatures, and the Hufflepuffs were to spend the afternoon in the dungeons.

Daisy snatched at Harry's sleeve as she watched their classmates scatter over the lawn. Her hand found his elbow beneath the folds of his robes and grabbed onto it.

"Aren't we going to wait for Hermione and Ron?" she asked, pulling him to a halt.

"Is Hermione still cross with me?" said Harry.

"Yeah."

"Well then, why should I wait?" Harry shook his sister's hand from his arm. "So that she can huff and puff and stamp her feet at me?"

"If you didn't want trouble, you shouldn't have snogged Malfoy," said Daisy. The girl was able to hold her composure for only a second and then burst into giggles. "If you want to imagine something, Harry, imagine _Malfoy_ being kissable."

Daisy attempted to emulate the blonde girl's haughty look, and then puckered her lips so much that she looked like a fish out of water, and threw herself at him. Harry batted her hands away.

"Potter!" Daisy intoned, imitating her rival. "Father says you must snog me. For the Minister!" Harry gave a snort of laughter, and shoved her gently.

"I'm glad that you believe me, at least," he said and scuffed his shoe on a patch of dirt. "Bloody girls."

"Of course, I believe you," said Daisy. "And Hermione will come round. She spent all summer talking about how you were _so_ talented at defense and transfiguration. I thought you might have transfigured her brain into another heart. I bet she enjoys having to compete with… Malfoy." Daisy tried to hold back her laughter, and failed.

"You would think the girl would stop at envy, before star crossed," groused Harry.

"I didn't say she wasn't jealous of you," said Daisy. "But that was last year." Harry stopped walking.

"What did you tell her?"

"What do you mean?" Daisy replied, not really meeting his eyes.

"Don't be so ruddy transparent," said Harry. "You told her something."

"No."

"Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Daisy!"

"I might have mentioned you helping me with the Patronus Charm once or twice," she said after a second. Harry's glare intensified. Daisy threw her hands up.

"Fine!" she cried. "I got angry and told her that the only reason she got a better score on her exams was because you waited up every night to help me learn the stupid charm."

"Why, why would you do that?" Harry asked, tilting his head back to look up at the sky. If there was anything Hermione liked more than intelligence, it was compassion. Harry pulled at his hair. It wasn't that he didn't like Hermione. She was clever, and kind-hearted, and was pretty enough, if you got past the perpetually stern countenance. But Harry simply had no time to waste on girls.

"You know I love her," said Daisy, "but sometimes her massive intellect spills out of her ears and gets on my skirt."

"What does that even mean?" asked Harry through a groan.

"It means…" Daisy began and jabbed a finger at him, "that you should shut your trap, and be happy that I defend your honor."

"Sometimes, Daisy, sometimes," said Harry. He swatted her finger away and mussed up her hair with both of his hands, pulling her close. His fingers pressed into her skull. "Sometimes, I wonder why I can't bring myself to hate you."

"Because you'd have done the same thing," said Daisy brightly and attempted to right her tangle of dark locks. "Now off you pop, Hagrid's waiting."

Harry laughed.

The roof of a cabin appeared as they climbed over a hillock. The wooden roof tiles still glistened with water. It had not rained since early this morning, but proximity to the Forbidden Forest let the wood's overarching trees shower the cabin with fresh water whenever the wind blew through leafy branches.

It wasn't a grand place; it had a pair of windows, a plain door, and a crooked chimney. The roof was a little too high and door a little too broad, but that was by necessity—Hagrid could place the angel atop a Christmas tree without reaching, and was also as wide around as an evergreen. Most importantly, Hagrid liked to hang game animals from the rafters, and it was better for everyone if bits of pheasant didn't get stuck in the giant man's wiry black mane.

A dog barked somewhere behind the hut. Harry felt a grin stretch his lips.

It had been too long since he had seen Fang. Harry missed the timid boarhound's sloppy kisses and playful begging. Harry missed Hagrid, too. He missed the man's rock cakes and too strong tea, and the stories of a time before Dark Lords, and wars, and plots to off his sister.

And nothing dangerous had bitten Harry in months.

He saw a similar happy expression spread across Daisy's face as she raced off, robes fluttering, for the small pumpkin patch where they held lessons.

Rubeus Hagrid was the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. He was the first wizard that Harry had ever met. The immense man had come to collect him from the orphanage. Harry could still remember Hagrid comically trying to squeeze through doors and up the creaky stairwell of the building to his room. After ten ages of blubbering and apologizing for leaving him at the mercy of muggles as 'on'y a babe,' Hagrid had revealed the two greatest things a small orphan could ever hope to hear: Harry Potter was a wizard, and Harry Potter had a family.

For the longest time, Hagrid had been the only person in the Potter twins' lives that could tell them any stories about the parents they had lost.

"Hey!" came Ron's loud voice. Harry felt the boy's fingers pull at his shoulder, and then redhead's breathless form appeared beside him. Ron set his hands on his knees and panted. After a moment, he glanced up at his best friend and frowned. "You didn't hear me call after you dungheads the whole way down the lawn?"

"Might have," said Harry.

"So, why didn't you wait for me?" Ron complained, and straightened up.

"Dunno," replied Harry. He threw a glance over his shoulder and caught sight of a lone brunette making her way up the mound. She fixed him with such a glare that Harry feared he would catch fire if she got any closer to them. He faced Ron. "Maybe I wanted to keep my good mood intact before class."

"Oh come on, Harry," Ron said as the two of them followed after Daisy. "You know how Hermione is. She'll have a good cry in the bathroom. We'll beat a mountain troll off her. And then she'll call it even."

"Yeah, you prat," said Harry. "That's why I didn't wait."

"Well," Ron said, and then fell silent.

"'Well' is right," said Harry. He could hear Hermione huffing up the hill. "Let's go. I want to say hello to Hagrid before class begins."

"What d'you think he's got us doing this term?" said Ron. "I really liked the flobberworms. Peaceful. Quiet. Herbivorous."

What Hagrid had waiting for them in a set of wooden crates in the pumpkin patch, was anything but peaceful, quiet, and herbivorous. The creatures that scuttled about in the containers were more of the slimy, silent, and incendiary persuasion.

"It explodes," Ron moaned.

"It explodes!" echoed Harry. He smiled widely and leaned over a crate to get a closer look at the critters. They seemed like shellfish, but without hard shells. Some of them had legs in the right places. Others didn't seem to be as fortunate and had been bestowed with legs on their backs and sides. The only sounds that came from the box were the click-clacking of chitinous feet on timber.

"Yeh," said Hagrid grinning at Harry, and joining him over the crate. The man's black eyes shone with adoration. "Blast-Ended Skrewts, they're called."

"Don't look so chuffed, you two," Ron called out. The boy was standing a respectable distance from the crates, and Lavender Brown was clinging to his robes in fright. "Its arse explodes, Harry!"

The words hadn't rolled off Ron's tongue, when the nearest skrewt blasted off.

"Ow!" Harry hissed, and drew his hand from the crate. His fingers were burned, nothing more dangerous than grabbing a kitchen match, but the sting of it rattled into his bones.

"Not too bad, now, eh, Harry?" said Hagrid, but his kind face crinkled in concern behind his great beard.

"Not too bad," Harry replied, shaking his fingers out. "They're going to be deadly when they mature."

"Aren't they," Hagrid crooned, stroking the back of skrewt that had raised itself up, somehow. The skrewt flipped onto its back and revealed a sucker, like that of an octopus, on its squishy belly.

Harry cocked his head and prodded it lightly.

Hagrid tasked them with feeding the skrewts bits of flesh and guts that he had collected in a set of tin buckets. No one bothered to ask why they didn't try to feed them anything green or leafy.

Daisy and Hermione joined Harry and Ron at the first crate of skrewts.

"Don't encourage him, idiot," Daisy muttered into her brother's ear when Hagrid moved off to supervise Lavender and Parvati's squealing attempts to grasp handfuls of frog guts. Harry just winked and shoved a piece of rabbit liver into the sucker of the up-ended skrewt. The thing seemed to choke on it, and Harry hurriedly cleared the orifice. _Crack_. The skrewt blasted away from him and flipped over.

"I guess that's not a mouth," said Harry staring at his fresh burn. Daisy made a disapproving cluck and flicked the frog guts into the crate. She washed her hands under Hagrid's garden spigot. Harry shook his hand, and made to put his fingers into his mouth.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," said Hermione, grabbing Harry's wrist. She ran her wand over his fingers; an expression of supreme concentration came over her face. "_Frixi_!"

The discomfort from the skrewt's blast was replaced by a cool sensation that rippled from Harry's fingertips and along the back of his hand. Harry made a pleased sound. Hermione's hand lingered on his a little longer than necessary. He didn't say anything. The first hints of color appeared in her cheeks, but, quickly, she forced a scowl over it, and let Harry have his hand back.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome," replied Hermione curtly, and levitated a portion of gory slop into the skrewt crate. Ron, who had watched the interaction in silence, spoke up.

"Was that a special thing?" he said, holding up a suspiciously red thumb for Hermione to see. "Or could you do that for me as well?" Hermione huffed out an angry breath, but crossed to cure Ron's injury.

"Brilliant!" Ron murmured. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"I read, Ron," Hermione told him. "You might want to give it a go sometime."

"I read enough," said Ron. "I read the back of that packet of dungbombs this morning."

"Oh, why are you so difficult?" Hermione snapped. "You know what I meant."

"Me," said Ron; his face stretched in incredulity. "_I'm _difficult? You won't talk to Harry because he thumped Malfoy and you took it for bloody intercourse."

"I did not take it for, for…" Hermione fumed.

"Bollocks," Ron shot back. "You're just mad that she _exposed_ herself and hers were bigger, you great prude." Daisy grabbed Hermione as she hefted the floating bits of frog guts and made to toss them at Ron.

"Easy, Hermione," said Daisy. "Harry didn't see anything, did you, Harry?"

"No," Harry said quickly. It seemed too quick for Hermione, though. The girl turned on him. Harry thought she was going to fling the guts at him, next, and recoiled.

"Do they like the frog guts?" she said instead. Harry lowered his arms from his face.

"What?"

"The skrewts." Hermione pointed at the crate and approached him with the sloppy skrewt food.

"Oh," said Harry. "Right. Erm, they don't seem to eat anything, actually." All of the students had effectively filled the containers with blood and guts and squishy bits, and the Blast-Ended Skrewts were just trundling through the slop like it was a sticky lagoon. Hermione came to stand at Harry's shoulder as he observed them.

"I suppose they're… interesting," said Hermione to him quietly, and lowered the food onto a pile of skrewts. She brushed at her hair. "No idea what their use is, though."

"They don't have to have a use!" Harry burst out. Hermione looked sideways at him, bemused. Harry forced the heat from his voice and said, "Not everything has to be harvested for bits of potion's ingredients, Hermione. They're entitled to survive as best they can."

"Only you and Hagrid can love these things." Hermione sniffed and scrunched her face up. "They smell foul." But she settled next to him to watch the skrewts patter about the boxes for the rest of the class. Harry almost didn't notice the slight pressure of her shoulder against his.

Hagrid dismissed them with the promise of a more hands on session with the Blast-Ended Skrewts next class. Lavender looked ready to faint at that. It took Parvati Patil and Seamus Finnigan both to walk her away from Hagrid's hut.

"I can't blame her," Ron mumbled as they set off up the lawn. "Once Hagrid figures out what they fancy eating I reckon they'll be massive." Harry shrugged. He liked the skrewts, and wouldn't mind seeing how big they could get.

"We all know that you don't care," grumbled Daisy. She was fiddling with the strap of her bag. "But I'd rather not get stung by a overgrown lobster. Or sucked on, for that matter."

"Agreed," said Ron as the great oaken doors of the castle came into view. "That aside, we've got Divination, now."

"_Double_ Divination," Daisy corrected, looking upset.

"It's your own fault," said Hermione. "You should have swapped it for something else, like Arithmancy, or Runes."

"I'm not going to do maths." Daisy sounded sour at the thought of it. "Or read stone tablets."

"We _don't_ read stone tablets," said Hermione testily. "Just rubbings."

"I'd still rather have Trelawney," said Daisy stifling a giggle. "Who knows, maybe she'll pick on Harry this term."

"I'm not going to Divination," said Harry, allowing Dean Thomas and the rest of the Gryffindors ahead of them.

"What?" said Daisy. "Why not?"

"I told you blockheads at breakfast," said Harry. "I gave it up."

"Why?" asked Ron. Harry just stared at them.

"You can't be serious," said Daisy, folding her arms over her chest. "That stupid prediction?"

"I'm not complaining," Hermione interjected. "Divination is a farce, but you can't take Trelawney seriously, Harry. Daisy's still alive, isn't she? Trelawney spent all term predicting her brutal murder, and lo'… she's still in one piece." Daisy smiled at that, but Harry's heart had started to speed up.

"_You_ didn't hear her," he said. "It was a real prediction."

It had to be. Prophesy, it was called. He asked the Headmaster. But Dumbledore was not certain if Professor Trelawney had, in fact, predicted anything. According to him, the woman had only ever had a single real prediction. But it didn't matter that no one else took him seriously. Even remembering Trelawney's words filled him with unease.

Harry was the reason that they were all still alive. And he had barely survived at that. Their teacher had died instead. And Wormtail had escaped.

Ron was opening and closing his mouth behind Daisy, clearly struggling for words. Harry shot him a silencing look, and watched the boy's teeth click together. He looked queasy.

"Harry." Daisy jerked on his forearm. "Think for one bloody second. You think that Wormtail, Wormtail, is going to revive Voldemort? He spent thirteen years sleeping on Ron's stomach. _Crookshanks_ nearly ate him! Trelawney is off her nut."

"Daisy!" Ron hissed, flinching. "How many times do I need to say, 'don't say it?'"

"Grow up," Daisy snapped, turning her head. "Is his name going to give you nightmares?"

"No," said Ron. "But… but, just don't say it." Daisy wasn't moved.

"_Voldemort_ isn't going to rely on your rat, Ron."

"H-he's not my rat." Ron scowled at his own tremulous voice, pressing his lips tight. "He's Percy's rat. And you saw him, he's the worst kind of person."

"You can't just ignore everything, Daisy," said Harry. "It means something. Everything does. Your scar, the Death Eaters, Wormtail, _everything_."

"Don't," Daisy growled. "Do not throw my scar pains into your barmy, half-baked conspiracies, Harry."

"Daisy."

"I said don't!" She chucked a piercing glare at him and stalked off up the lawn.

"Should you go after her?" Ron asked.

"I - Why don't you?" asked Harry. He could feel the first stirrings of anger in his jaw. Not for the first time, a part of him wanted to make Daisy see things as he did. It wanted her to notice the way situations always went afoul whenever she was involved.

Daisy couldn't act the fool forever. And something had to be done. They couldn't just react to the constant danger for the rest of their lives. If only he knew what to do to prevent it.

And then there was the bit of him that wanted Daisy to stay the same. Because acting as Harry did would only get her hurt. Daisy was too nice, too much had happened to her. He… just didn't know what to do, and… Harry ground his teeth.

"You all right?" asked Ron quietly.

"Tip top," said Harry with a forced smile. "You've got class with her, just go."

"Harry, it can't be easy-"

"Ron," Harry cut in. "I'm fine. Just go." Frown deepening, Ron nodded and hurried off after Daisy. Harry stood still. And breathed. She would be all right. Ron would cheer her up. Daisy would forget. She would forgive him by dinner. She'd be fine.

So why did he feel terrible?

"Come on," said Hermione softly from his side. "You look pale. Let's have lunch."

* * *

**Thank you for reading. **

**Comment, corrections, etc., feel free. **


	4. New Scotland Yard

**Three **

**New Scotland Yard**

Eating didn't help.

It just made Harry feel like apologizing. Hermione tried her best to distract him. Shoving a platter of sandwiches before him, she provided a spirited play-by-play of the Quidditch World Cup, even venturing into the details of collisions and injuries. Harry offered her a weak smile, and ate.

Her story carried him through the meal, fine enough, but now that they were walking through the empty halls of the castle, Harry felt like sneaking off to the tower and speaking to his sister.

Professor Trelawney was half mad. She wouldn't notice if he turned up. Right?

Hermione, for her part, was still trying to cheer him up, but fell short. It was the first day of term, and she was leading him to the library. There was work to be done, she said. Hermione had taken it upon herself to crusade for the emancipation of House-elves from the rusty iron collar that was wizarding rule. Her words, not his.

Harry scratched his head and glanced sideways at her. She didn't take notice of the look. Hermione had her books pressed tight against her chest, eyes set forward. Her head bobbed as she chattered and strands of her curly hair puffed about in the cool draft of the hall. Anyone that didn't have a passing familiarity with the girl might have mistaken her passion for a fit or Tourette's. House-elves. House-elves under the cruel yoke of slavery.

Harry didn't have the heart to tell her that her plans were for nothing—especially because she _was_ trying to help him. Besides, if she was absorbed in... er...

"Hermione."

"You know, Britain hasn't tolerated slavery ever since the time of Hogwarts' founders. Not to mention the legislation of modern times!"

"Hermione."

"But it isn't just that, Harry! The house-elves have feelings! They can talk, and think. You should have seen how heartbroken Winky was! How can they be treated like common draft beasts? Like animals! For wizards to be so callous, so cruel, so..." she trailed off with a growl and squeezed her books against her bust. Hermione looked up at him, her eyes flashing.

"But you agree with me, don't you?"

Harry bit his lip to keep silent. He liked house-elves, he truly did, but freeing the lot of them was not going to help anybody. And granted that Hermione could free them, where would they all go? They couldn't live in the forest like centaurs, or in the lake like mermen. They had to live in houses. Their culture was based around it. It was in the name. House. Elf.

If freed, would they get jobs at the Ministry and purchase their own houses to live in?

Hermione repeated her question.

"Erm… sure," answered Harry.

"That's not very convincing." She sniffed. "Please tell me that you don't _agree_ with Ron."

"He's got a point, though. They do like their work—"

"What!"

"Hold on, I mean… I don't think that they should be mistreated, or whipped, or anything." He set the strap of his rucksack on his shoulder. "But you can't just free them."

"That's not good enough!" said Hermione. "It's not enough to just stop the mistreatment. They have a right to live free of slavery."

"Er, but what about, you know, 'one step at a time?'" said Harry. "No one is just going to give their elves up right away."

"Well," said Hermione, seeming to struggle with the thought. "Perhaps we can start small, but... but we'll fight for their complete freedom no matter what." She squared her shoulders and pattered forward again.

"And what's all this 'we' business?" Harry called after her. She faced him.

"We, the Committee to Stop the Outrageous Abuse of our Fellow Magical Creatures and Campaign for a Change in their Legal Status.'" Hermione was breathless by the end of the title.

"Oh." Harry tried to keep his smile under wraps by scrunching up his face.

"It's a mouthful, I know," she said. "I'm still working on it. And that means… research."

They reached the great dark doors of Hogwarts' library. The revised rules and prohibitions for use and conduct were already pasted over the copies from last term. Hermione ran her eyes over the flyers, nodding to herself, and shoved the doors forward. They barely whispered over the carpeting.

She strolled forth, as if she were entering her powder room rather than the public library, and claimed the first work table in their path. Harry offered the librarian, Madam Pince, a wave of greeting, and followed after.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger," the librarian called. Madam Pince had a curious way of speaking. Her voice rarely rose above a whisper, but always seemed to carry the appropriate distance across the library.

"You as well," said Harry, unslinging his rucksack.

"Shh!" hushed the librarian.

"But we're the only ones in here!"

Madam Pince looked at him over her glasses, nonplussed, and turned back to whatever it was that she busied herself with. Harry scowled at her back, and sank into the chair beside Hermione's bag. The girl, herself, had disappeared into the stacks. Harry set his chin on the cool wood and closed his eyes. He exhaled a bit of quiet laughter. The Committee to Stop the Outrageous Abuse of our Fellow Magical Creatures. Well. She _had_ distracted him from Daisy.

But there were other things that he had to do.

Hermione had Arithmancy in a little bit, so Harry would be left to his own devices. He could go find the Headmaster, and Nick, too. He lifted his head and stood up. Until then, he would see what he could find out about the Triwizard Tournament in the library.

Harry made his way across to Madam Pince's desk, asked her for material on the subject, and accepted her scrawled note on the location of a book.

He rolled his eyes when he found it.

_Hogwarts, A History. _

Brilliant. If Hermione caught him here, after years of declining to read her favorite book—

"Aha!" came her breathless whisper. "Look at this, Harry!"

He jumped, a foul word on his lips.

"Harry! This is a library!" Hermione hissed. She shifted her gaze about, as though he had cursed in church rather than a school for wizards and was waiting for indignant clergymen to descend on them.

"You startled me," Harry said to her, positioning himself in front of the bookshelf. "What's the matter?"

Hermione showed him her teeth and thrust forth a grubby old book. Dust swirled up from the cover as she did, and Harry had to fight to keep from sneezing.

"Wizarding law tome," Hermione provided at his blinking stare. "This has to have some sort of precedent about house-elf welfare." She pulled the book back and flipped it open, sending more dust into the air. Harry have her a half-hearted glare, but she ignored him.

"I glanced at one passage already," she said. "Did you know that the centaurs once petitioned to have their status changed as it pertained to wizards and their ministries? And it worked! They're beasts now! Something useful has to be in here."

"Er, great," Harry muttered. "I'll meet you at the table, yeah?"

"Oh! What have you got?" asked Hermione. He tried to obscure her view, but it was useless. She stood on tip-toes, and edged him aside. Even though his hand still covered the title, Hermione knew the book on sight.

"I told you," she said smugly. "I _told_ you that it's a good read, Harry."

"I just need to read about the Tournament," he said, stifling his exasperation. "Not about the construction every ruddy arcade in the castle."

"Sure you do," chirped Hermione. Her buck teeth gleamed in the pale light of the library. She turned and hurried back through the aisle, robes swishing. Harry snatched the book up, and followed. He dropped himself next to her and began to flip through the pages.

"This is useless," muttered Harry at last. "There's nothing in here but a list of victims."

"I told you all at dinner last night." Hermione pulled her nose from the pages of her law book and blinked at him. "It doesn't say much about the tournament itself, except the casualties. There are loads of casualties," she paused. "It's barbaric, really."

Harry chewed his lip and thumbed through the death tally. Many of the people killed weren't even participants of the tournament. If Wormtail or someone else wanted to murder Daisy, this tournament was a boon.

Once a cockatrice had eviscerated the judges, leaving all three schools of magic without headmasters. Needless to say, Hogwarts didn't host the tournament for a few decades after.

Harry squinted at the page. There was something about a ball that was held during Christmas holiday. Skimming the passage, he sighed. It was nothing specific. Just that a maddened yeti had stormed into the party and squashed a pair of children in their seats.

Magnificent.

The Durmstrang judge had figured a surprise task was necessary to test the students' awareness.

"Bagshot's stomach must be lined with steel," Harry whispered to Hermione. "Yours, too, by the way. This is graphic."

"She is rather morbid," said Hermione. Then she frowned. "And I don't think she's ever mentioned house-elves. Let me see it?"

Trying to force the image of a yeti with a child's head lodged between it's toes from his mind, Harry passed her the book. He cast a glance at Madam Pince, and then at the clock that hung on the wall behind her desk.

"Hermione?"

"Hmm?"

"Don't you have class, soon?" he asked.

"Oh, aren't you coming, too?" Hermione lifted her gaze from the book. "I figured you had taken up Arithmancy instead of Divination."

Harry shook his head. "No."

"Oh." Hermione looked put out. "Runes is all right, too," she said. "Not as technical, mind you. You really have to do the work in Arithmancy, but reading runes is good fun."

"Erm, I'm not taking either of them," said Harry.

"What?" she cried.

"Shhh!" said Madam Pince.

"Sorry." Hermione flushed. Madam Pince's glare didn't let up. Harry snorted.

"Don't you laugh," Hermione said in a hushed outrage. "What do you mean you aren't taking either of them?"

"Just that," said Harry. "I didn't want any of them."

"So you're just going to laze about instead?" asked Hermione; she crossed her arms. "That's not like you. What about your records?"

"They're just electives, Hermione."

"Yes, but you need them to get into certain occupations! Bill says he reads runes all the time, and curse-breaking is an incredibly interesting field." She gave him a steady look. "And much safer than being an Auror."

Harry arched an eyebrow. Was Hermione concerned for his safety?

They wouldn't graduate for years yet. And Harry didn't even know if he wanted to be an Auror, only that it sounded a lot better than working with Mr. Weasley or Percy Weasley. He might have considered going to Romania, where the dragon reservations were, but Daisy would never follow him there.

Hermione went on, explaining the use of Arithmancy in alchemy and government, and Harry started to tell her off, but her wristwatch let out a little beep. Abruptly she stood, panic writ across her face.

"Oh, no." Hermione slid her all of her things into her school bag with a single motion. "I'm going to be late!"

Grabbing up the law tome, she rushed into the stacks and came back empty handed. Hermione pulled him from his seat, and hurried for the doors. Madam Pince waved an absent hand as they passed.

"Bye!" said Hermione.

"Shh!" said the librarian.

Grinning, Harry walked Hermione down the hall, taking her pestering about picking up Arithmancy or Runes in place of 'vagrancy and indolence' in stride. Finally, after he convinced her that he would see the Headmaster about it, he placed his hand on the small of her back, and shoved her onto the moving staircase.

"Harry!" Hermione said. Twin splotches of pink appeared high on her cheeks. "Don't do that!"

Harry just waved her off and hurried back down the passage in pursuit of answers.

**···**

He had nearly reached the gargoyle that concealed the Headmaster's spiral staircase when he heard it.

_Thunk_.

It resounded in the emptiness of the hall. Harry's eyes darted about in vain. There was nowhere to hide in this part of the castle. It was done on purpose, just so that no one could spring out at the Headmasters as they walked to and from their office.

Harry had never been bothered by it before now. It meant that Professor Dumbledore could never avoid him. It didn't always get him answers, but his success rate was far better than his sister's. Daisy never got clear answers from the Headmaster.

_Thunk._

Now, though, the empty corridor meant that Harry could not avoid Professor Moody. There wasn't so much as a billowy tapestry or a suit of armor to hide behind. Just blank stone on all sides.

_Thunk. _

He stood very still. Harry had wanted to approach the new professor, of course, but on his own terms, and in his own time—preferably after he spoke to Professor Dumbledore about the Tournament and Daisy's safety. The story about the yeti was still firmly in his mind, but the dead child's head was now his sister's, and Peter was cackling at him from beneath a dolled up Slytherin table as the yeti stamped on her corpse.

"Potter, eh?" Moody's voice swung around the corner before he did. It was gruff and rolling, like a the rumbled greeting of an alleyway cur. Harry was familiar with the sound.

Moody stumped forward. His grey cloak hardly concealed his wooden leg. He leaned on his staff; his normal eye, black and glinting, peered out at Harry from a nest of dark wrinkles.

"Erm, yes," said Harry. Moody's upper lip twisted. His magical eye, electric blue, whirled from inside his skull to focus on him. Harry fought the urge to look away. Moody's face was just so unsettling.

Once, when he was young, the boys had all gone fishing on the Blackwater in Essex. Harry had enjoyed being outside with trees and water and fish. And although the scenery there was nothing in comparison to Hogwarts, the river and its estuary had something that the Black Lake did not.

Great piles of driftwood.

It was dry, and twisted, and oddly colored, with great sunken knots and thready bits that looked like hair. Harry had made a small stick man from a piece of it. When they returned to London, he allowed an alleyway dog to play with it. Mad-Eye Moody looked like what the dog had left behind.

His body was thin and crooked, like a branch. The rare streaks of black in a mane of stringy grey and white did nothing but reinforce the image of dry wood.

Even Moody's face hardly looked like a face. It was stiff, and it seemed like the man had trouble making the simplest of expressions. The way he had twisted his mouth, Harry realized after a moment, was meant to be a smile of greeting. Harry had mistaken it for excruciating pain.

"Yeah, Potter, all right," said Moody. "What are you after, lad?"

"I was going to see Professor Dumbledore, sir." Harry pulled his gaze from Moody's wooden leg, and tried to ignore the man's ambling gait.

Moody grunted, "Can't."

"Er, why not?" asked Harry, who still had not moved so much as a step.

"He's busy," answered Moody. "Ministry business." The way Moody mentioned the government made Harry feel as though Angelina had been correct in assuming the new professor's retirement had been forced.

"You don't like Fudge, then?" he said, probing. Usually when the Headmaster was dealing with the Ministry, he was actually dealing with the Minister for Magic. Moody, for his part, didn't even blink. He just kept stumping forward, both eyes fixed on Harry.

"Nope," he said. "Not Fudge, not Scrimgeour, not Bones, not Thicknesse, not Bagman, and especially not Crouch. To save your asking, Potter."

Harry frowned. The girls had mentioned Mr. Bagman. He had been in charge of the World Cup, and Mr. Crouch—he was Percy's boss that fired the house-elf, Winky. They (in tandem with foreign wizards) had arranged for the Triwizard Tournament to come to Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore had said as much last night.

Mr. Bones might have been related to Susan Bones—a Hufflepuff in his year—but Harry had not the faintest idea who the other people were.

"They made you retire?" he asked.

"Some," said Moody, stopping a few paces short of Harry. The older man squinted with his real eye.

"Er, and the others," said Harry. "You just didn't like them?"

Moody laughed, a single barking note, that reminded Harry again of an angry dog. "They're scum."

"Sorry?" said Harry quickly.

"Scum," repeated Moody, his mouth twisted in the opposite direction. Harry assumed it was a frown. Moody thumped his staff once, peering closely at Harry's face and said, very clearly, "Filth, Potter. Dirt. Earthworms."

"Oh." It was all that Harry could say. Moody laughed again, in the same way, and walked closer to him.

"Fudge doesn't impress you, either." Moody pressed his thin lips tight. "Good. He's very nearly the worst."

"Er, I didn't say—"

"Bollocks," Moody cut him off, and started past, clunking down the hall in that same measured way.

Harry stood facing the path to Professor Dumbledore's office. Then, scowling, he turned about. What was he going to ask the Headmaster, now? Moody had gone and raised more questions in the span of twelve bloody seconds.

Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman had helped to arrange the tournament, and Fudge was… Harry ran his fingers through his hair. Moody was right. Harry didn't like Fudge. The Minister was as thick as his namesake.

And Mad-Eye Moody, the man that had caught the most criminals ever, had called them scum.

Harry watched the man near the end of the corridor.

For someone that was supremely paranoid, Moody had given Harry more than enough information with only a few choice words.

"Professor!" he called.

"Potter," said Moody without looking back. Harry had the distinct feeling that the man's magical eye was fixed upon him again. He attempted to suppress his unease, adjusting his glasses nervously.

"Er," began Harry. "Do you think I cou—"

"Hurry up then, lad," Moody said gruffly. "It'll take me the rest of the afternoon to get down those damned stairs. Might as well have company." Harry nodded, again very sure that Moody was watching him, and hurried forth.

The professor was not lying about the Grand Staircase.

Their progress was slow, agonizingly so, and several times, just as they reached the point where one flight joined another, the staircase moved.

Moody revealed nothing more about the Ministry or the Tournament, but grumbled all the way down, short, sharp sentences, about inane things.

Why did the portraits stare?

The students seemed weaker in constitution nowadays.

What type of magic did Harry favor?

He would burn the next portrait to point at them.

The cold of the dungeons made his leg ache.

Whenever Harry answered, in a similar brief manner, Mad-Eye Moody laughed his barking laugh and thumped his staff against the stone.

"Why the knife, Potter?" asked Moody. Harry paused, two steps above the professor, taken by surprise.

"You can see through robes?"

Moody waved a hand. "Robes. Walls, doors, flesh. All the same."

"That must be strange," said Harry.

"No stranger than a wizard with a blade," Moody said doggedly, clunking down the stairs.

"It's, it's," said Harry, trying not to stutter further as he found a way to explain himself. He had a knack for breaking curfew, no matter if it was at school, or in London, and for some reason, he was having a tough time saying that the blade had saved his life more than a handful of times. Harry shrugged a shoulder at the professor. "It's habit, I suppose."

"Seems a fairly dangerous habit." Moody's blue eye dipped low, fixing on the pocket of Harry's robes. "Keen edge."

"What use is a dull one?"

Moody grinned his disconcerting grin, but left it at that. They walked down the last flight.

"They say old age makes you weary," Moody began anew; his leg clacked on the marble steps. "Never had a problem until these stairs." He set his lips in a grim line, and glanced back up the way they had come. "At least it's only a year."

Harry started, almost missing the last step. "You're not staying?"

"No." His magical eye whizzed around, glaring at the portraits that cheered at this. "Favor for Dumbledore. Just the one year, he asked."

Harry's curiosity was at a new high. He looked away from the professor, and tried to keep his desperate interest from burning through to his face. Harry patted the banister instead, and waited until they started down the hall to ask his question.

"You didn't want the post, permanently?"

"Don't be cute, Potter."

"What?"

Moody let out a quiet chuckle. "You know the question, ask it." The softness of the sound seemed to be at extreme odds with his gnarled face. Harry _had _been too obvious. He felt the heat rise in his neck and ears.

"Er, why did Professor… erm, is Voldemort trying something?" he said slowly.

Mad-Eye Moody didn't frown, or laugh, or clunk his staff, but both of his eyes settled on Harry again, putting him under intense scrutiny. The corridor seemed to grow quiet, until the only sound was the scraping rise and thunking fall of Moody's wooden leg. Harry became acutely aware of his own shallow breathing. What else could Moody's eye see?

"Albus and I agree on a few things," said Mad-Eye Moody at last. "The Dark Lord is not dead, and his true supporters are not passive."

"What's going on?" Harry blurted into the broken silence. "Is Daisy in danger? The school's going to be open because of the Tournament. The people from the World Cup, are they trying to help him back?"

"Heard about that, did you?" asked Moody.

"It was in the _Prophet_," said Harry.

"I wouldn't worry about them," said Moody. His expression grew dark and rage wrinkled his real eye. His lip curled. "They're fair-weather wizards. Ready to bow and scrape when You-Know-Who is handing out morsels, but!" Moody snapped his fingers. "Just like that, they're all under the enchantments, and coercion, 'Please, Mr. Crouch, please, Minister! It was Lestrange! It was Dolohov!" Moody spat onto the stone, and Harry stepped back. Moody made an angry sound in his throat, but catching sight of Harry's agitation, calmed himself.

"Sorry," he grunted.

Harry nodded, and kept quiet for only a few steps before asking, "I guess they got away?"

Moody grunted the affirmative. "Hatred comes easily, Potter. It can twist you. But if anyone deserves my undying hatred, it's a Death Eater that walked free."

"Why?" said Harry then. "Why are you telling me all of this, Professor?"

Moody's face returned to it's tamer scowl. "Dumbledore told me all about you, Potter."

"Me?"

"Aye," said Moody. "Your sister, as well, but just that she has a penchant for getting tangled up in trouble."

"Oh," said Harry. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" barked Moody. "As he tells it, you're the reason this school is still running. The Chamber of Secrets, eh? And a Basilisk. And of course all of that business last term."

"What?"

"Last term," said Moody, his blue eye started to whirl in his skull, and his tone quieted. "It takes quite a few favors to cover the death of a teacher up without detailed inquiry. Even if he was a werewolf."

"He told you." Harry's voice was hollow. Moody bent forward, his iron-shod staff scraping.

"Not just that." He settled one bony hand on Harry's shoulder. "You're tough, he said—in more words, of course. Dumbledore says you've got something special in you."

Harry bit his tongue. He knew exactly what the Headmaster saw in him, but it wasn't something that he would want shared with Mad-Eye Moody, even if the man knew things that should have been secret. Sometimes he wondered if the Headmaster was comfortable with even Harry knowing about Ariana and Gellert Grindelwald.

"Relax, Potter. His secrets are no business of mine," said Moody. "But I think, if anyone in this bloody school has the stones for action, you do."

"I only did it for Daisy," said Harry quickly. "I didn't mean for—"

"Save it, Potter," said Moody. "You acted. Someone died. Your side's alive. That's war."

"I'm not an Auror," said Harry heatedly. "And Professor Lupin wasn't an enemy! There's no war. It's all just Voldemort stabbing at us from the shadows. I… just want it to stop."

"Stabbing from the shadows, eh?" said Moody with a snort of dark laughter. "I think you have a perfect grasp on how wizards do war, Potter."

"I," Harry ground out, "don't want to be involved in war."

"So then," said Moody. "The Dark Lord will return. And your sister will die."

The was no malice in the old man's voice. To Harry, it sounded like Moody had read the line from a textbook. Plain. Dry. He felt a shiver run through him, and met the Auror's black eye.

Lord Voldemort had tried to come back twice, now, and had just barely failed in both attempts. Now Peter Pettigrew, the man that had sold Harry's parents to the Dark Lord was free, and Professor Trelawney had predicted Voldemort's return. Mad-Eye Moody was here, at Hogwarts, because things were dangerous now.

"Ah," said Moody. "There we are."

"He's trying to come back again this year." Harry tried to calm the swirl of rage and despair that churned his insides. "How?"

"If we knew," said Moody, "then why would Dumbledore need an Auror to help?"

"It's the tournament, isn't it?" asked Harry. "All these people will be coming, the school will be wide open. I read something about a yeti—"

"Not if I have anything to say in the matter," Moody cut him off, thumping his staff, and fell silent. They approached the Great Hall. The buzz of happy chatter, the pale warmth of fire, and the smell of dinner grew in the corridor.

"Do you know what an Auror does, Potter?" Moody asked.

"You catch criminals."

"In a sense," said Moody. "I suppose to you they are criminals. To me they're just dark wizards and we are the bright ones. But its more than just catching them, lad. You track them, and put right what they did wrong."

"But unless Death Eaters appear here, Professor," said Harry "I don't see what that has to do with Hogwarts." Harry bit his lip. He wasn't sure if Moody would answer outright, but he had to give it a go.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," said Moody, "that something is not right, here, Potter. You say the school will be wide open. I say that I'm here to prevent that. But a clever adversary could slip through the meanest of cracks." He paused, and looked at Harry dead on.

"Things will take a turn, sooner or later. In my experience, sooner. Dumbledore says you're a clever lad. And you seem to be. Half of these academic sods aren't smart enough to read the signs—even the few that you have seen. The ones that do, don't have the sense or drive to do anything about it. The Dark Lord has waited a long time for this victory, Potter. Some of his lot are growing restless, even the gutless ones—that fiasco at the World Cup is a stirring."

Harry was fixated on only a few words. '_Even the few that you have seen_.'

"What else has happened?" he said, forehead wrinkling.

Moody shook his head.

"Don't worry yourself with those things, just yet," he said. "Enough is happening right here."

"What?"

"I meant what I said, Potter," said Moody. "Dumbledore wants help in keeping this school safe, and I can do that. To an extent. But there is always the potential for things to go wrong, a single misstep and—" _Crack! _Moody slammed the iron end of his staff onto the flags. "The Dark Lord's agents slip in, and the school crumbles around says you're a perceptive lad. I can appreciate that. Perhaps you can help."

"What can _I_ do?" asked Harry, although he already knew the answer.

Moody smiled, lips too thin, and Mad-Eye spinning.

"Keep your eyes open."

The words were heavier than they seemed, and Harry would have laughed if Moody's smile didn't look so much like a grimace. Professor Dumbledore had always asked them to stay out of trouble. Mad-Eye Moody wanted him dive into it. But did it really change anything? Harry would look out for Daisy regardless.

He broke the gaze first, and the two of them continued in silence. Harry's mind screamed in circles, going over all that the Auror had said. The stone grew from dim grey to warm orange as they neared the entrance hall. The drone of conversation sharpened into—

"You're dead!" shouted Daisy.

Harry rounded the corner with Moody thunking in his wake. The sconces were ablaze; what little light slunk in through the high bay was purple. The chandelier's glass prisms bounced light around the vault, and made the polished stone floor shine.

Daisy was squared off against Lyra Malfoy. Both of their wands were drawn. Crabbe and Goyle, looming behind their leader, were digging in their pockets as well. Beside his sister, Ron was red in the face, spluttering curses. Hermione had her hand on Daisy's wand-arm, but it was little use.

Daisy snarled something unintelligible, jerking her arm away from Hermione, and Malfoy's face contorted, scrunching from caustic to murderous.

Brilliant.

Harry flashed his arm forward, pulling his wand from inside his robes, and disarmed the both of them.

Their wands slipped from their hands and _click-clacked_ onto the marble. Daisy let out a angry growl at her sudden lack of arms, and made to charge at her blonde adversary. Malfoy glanced at the tile, the wands, and then shifted her gaze across the hall to him. She smirked.

Harry ignored her, rushing forward to yank his sister from Hermione's failing grip.

"Let go!" Daisy snarled. Her expression only grew darker when she noticed Malfoy's widening smirk. The blonde had recovered her wand, and was idly sliding it through her fingers. Harry squeezed Daisy's shoulder as tightly as he could without hurting her, and spun her to face him.

"Professor Moody is right—"

"I don't care," said Daisy. Harry had to fight to keep his hold on her.

"We don't even have any points to lose," whispered Harry. "You'll get detention."

"She insulted Mum," said Daisy. Harry stiffened, and looked back at Malfoy, but the girl's smirk had disappeared.

Moody had finally crossed the hall and, blue eye spinning, stood over the prone forms of Crabbe and Goyle. His staff was angled at Lyra, who had gone whiter than her blouse. She had pressed herself against the wall, as far from the new professor as she could manage. Tracey stood wide-eyed next to her; the girl's customary detachment was gone. Harry couldn't blame her. He hadn't even heard Crabbe or Goyle hit the ground. Moody grinned at him. Suddenly, the old man's wand flitted from Malfoy and settled on Ron.

"Don't," growled Moody. Ron flushed a deeper red, and pulled his hand from inside his robes.

"I wasn't—"

Moody ignored him. "Potter," he said instead. "Rouse these two." He gestured at crumpled boys. Harry let Daisy go, leaving her to Hermione's whispered reproach. His sister just frowned down at the unconscious Slytherins.

"I don't know—"

"Ok," said Harry. He shot Malfoy a glare, and crouched over her friends. Prodding Crabbe, and then Goyle with the tip of his wand and Harry muttered, "_Rennervate_."

There were two dull flashes of red light, and Goyle rolled onto his side. Crabbe stirred a moment later, and sat up, confused. Then, seeing Moody, the burly boy swallowed and looked up to Malfoy for assistance.

"Davis," barked Moody, "Malfoy. Gather these lumps. I need to have words with Professor Snape."

Tracey seemed to collect herself at last.

"Professor," she said. "We're not at fault, Potter pulled her wa—"

"Don't care," grunted Moody, thumping his staff. His magic eye swept across the four Slytherins. "Get them up."

Tracey's arguments fell on deaf ears. Moody just fixed her with a dangerous look, and watched as the girls led Crabbe and Goyle into the Great Hall. He faced Harry when they had gone.

"What can you do indeed," Moody muttered; he winked, his Mad-Eye still roving, and ambled forward. "Five points to Gryffindor." He clunked through the doors and disappeared. Harry stowed his wand, and motioned for Ron and Hermione to go inside. Hermione bit her lip, but pulled Ron along with her.

"She deserved it." Daisy had regained her own wand, appearing at his elbow. Her skin was drawn tight over her knuckles. "You would have done the same thing."

"I—"

"You would have," said Daisy, her brow wrinkled. "Don't lie."

"She doesn't pick fights with me," said Harry.

"Oh," said Daisy. She reached up and prodded his cheek, still bruised from where Malfoy had cursed him. "You took a tumble down the stairs, then? On the train?" Harry winced, and pushed her hand away.

"What good would detention be?"

"I don't care about bloody detention!" snarled Daisy, setting her hands on her hips. "It's the first day back. What's Filch going to make me do? Clean the lavatory?"

"You wouldn't be able to come along, tonight."

"No one's used them yet, I'd be done in fifteen min—" Daisy paused, her expression brightened. "Wait. Tonight? Where? What are we doing?"

"How do you feel about Horseback Head Juggling?"

* * *

**Thank you for reading. All sorts of comments welcome. **


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